


Another Auld Lang Syne

by DiscordantWords



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Advent Calendar, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Christmas, Drinking, Eventual Happy Ending, Ficlet Collection, First Kiss, Holidays, M/M, New Year's Eve, New Year's Kiss, Past Drug Use, Pining John, Pining Sherlock, Post-Season/Series 04, Winter
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-10
Updated: 2018-01-03
Packaged: 2019-02-12 20:05:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 31
Words: 30,234
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12967392
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DiscordantWords/pseuds/DiscordantWords
Summary: There had been years of missed chances.





	1. Bundled Up

**Author's Note:**

> Each chapter is based off of a prompt from [missdaviswrites](http://missdaviswrites.tumblr.com)' fantastic [Sherlock December Ficlets](http://missdaviswrites.tumblr.com/post/167644180668/sherlock-december-ficlets) list. My hope is that I'll be able to post a chapter a day until the end of the year. The chapters will be short but will (hopefully) tie together cohesively into a larger story. 
> 
> I got a bit of a late start, so there may be a few days where I post double chapters as I try to catch up. 
> 
> Story title is drawn from one of my absolute favorite melancholy holiday songs, Dan Fogelberg's "Same Old Lang Syne."

*

The air was cold, but John walked home at an unhurried pace. 

The streets were busier than usual, bustling with last-minute shoppers and merrymakers. Storefronts and windows were strung with twinkling fairy lights, warm and inviting against the bracing chill. 

He did not wear gloves. The tips of his fingers had gone red, and then white, and he clenched his fists to keep them warm. 

The walk was doing little to clear his head. 

His phone buzzed in his pocket. He did not take it out to look at it.

He was late, he knew. Not terribly so, not yet, but later than usual. He had not taken the tube. He'd bundled his thick winter coat close and had put his head down and walked. And walked. And walked. 

_John. Hi! This might seem out of the blue,_ Sarah's voice on the phone, a ghost from the past. Her little self-conscious laugh that brought to mind the way she used to look down when she smiled, the way she used to tuck her hair behind her ear. 

It had startled him, badly, that voice. He had not spoken to Sarah in years. Had not _thought_ of her in years. He had been a different person, back then, when he'd known her. 

_Sarah, wow, hi,_ he'd said. He'd smiled, though he'd been alone in his office. He had mostly finished his paperwork. He'd been finishing his last sip of lukewarm tea and reaching for his coat when the phone had rung. _It's been—um. It's been a long time._

They'd exchanged brief, stilted pleasantries. She was married now, she told him. Had two small daughters. She was happy. 

_We've actually—well, John, it's why I'm calling,_ she'd said. _Your name came up the other day and I've got—well. I've got a bit of a proposition for you._

And he'd sat and he'd listened while she told him about the practice she and her husband had set up in Bristol, and how they'd discussed recruiting a third doctor, and how her thoughts had turned to her old friend John Watson, and she'd wondered how he was doing, if he'd ever consider leaving his insanely adventurous life in London behind in favour of something a bit quieter. 

He'd thought of his little room in Baker Street, cluttered up now with his and Rosie's things. Thought of Sherlock in his dressing gown, who, just that very morning, had leapt from the kitchen table, seized his violin and engaged in forty-five minutes of the most frantic and unsettling medley of Christmas music John had ever heard. 

Quiet was not something that John had ever wanted. Not really. 

But, then again, he'd proven himself fairly shit at making decisions. And when had getting what he wanted ever brought him anything but trouble in the end? 

So he'd told her he'd think about it. And then he'd rung off and had sat at his desk, staring down at his left hand for a good long while. And then he'd gotten his coat, and he'd bundled up against the cold, and he'd gone outside and he'd walked. 

Baker Street was warm. The hallway smelled of fresh-baked cookies and peppermint. He hung his coat, went up the stairs into the flat. 

Sherlock was sat in his chair, a book in his hand, Rosie in his lap. 

John glanced at the title. "Teaching her about poisons?" 

"How to avoid them," Sherlock said. "Two days until Christmas. Do you have any idea how many poisonings occur at holiday parties?" He shut the book, looked up. Frowned at what he saw. 

Rosie reached for John and he took her, lifted her into his arms. She was warm and heavy where she settled against his chest. 

He thought about the little house he'd shared with Mary, with its tasteful color palette and orderly tidiness. Thought about the chaotic cosiness of Baker Street. He knew where he was happiest. The thought was not always comfortable. 

There was Rosie to consider. Rosie who would, eventually, need her own room. Her privacy. Who might benefit from a garden to play in, or sleep that was not periodically interrupted by explosions or masked intruders or a father who ran off to play hero. His lifestyle had already cost her a mother, after all. 

"I sent texts. We have a case," Sherlock said. His voice was tentative, questioning. Whatever he'd seen on John's face had discomfited him. "Mrs Hudson said she'd be happy to take Watson for a few hours." 

"Not tonight," John said, holding Rosie close, bouncing her a bit in his arms. He could not quite bring himself to meet Sherlock's eyes. He turned away, climbed the stairs to his room.


	2. Wish List

*

Sherlock went down the stairs and put on his coat.

_Not tonight,_ John had said, and had turned away without making eye contact, had carried Rosie up the stairs to his room without another word. 

John, who had come home late from the surgery, with his ungloved fingers stiff with cold and his cheeks reddened, his mouth pressed in a firm tight line. 

Something was wrong. Something was _clearly_ wrong, and he had no idea what to do about it. What to say. Where to even begin. He never knew, it seemed. Not about things like this. Not when it came to John. Not when it counted.

Sherlock drew on his gloves, paused. Looked back up the stairs. 

John was different, these days. They both were. It was to be expected. Simply sharing rooms again could not recreate the past, could not erase the damage the last few years had wrought. 

He went on looking at the stairs.

"Gifts," he'd said once, years ago, a _lifetime_ ago, on a cold December night, standing in the same place he stood now.

Mrs Hudson had been on a decorating tear, putting up garland and fairy lights and baubles. Even his skull had gained a festive hat. He and John had escaped, had spent a mildly diverting evening out at the pub. John had eaten a pile of chips. Sherlock had swiped some from his plate while he wasn't watching. They'd come tromping home, had paused in the hallway to remove their coats, cold-cheeked but warm and loose with drink. 

"Gifts?"

"We should have them, yes? For the—guests? Since you remain so stubbornly adamant about hosting a holiday 'do. I'll make a list." 

"Ah, no," John had said. "No gifts. Not from you." 

"Why?"

"Because you give terrible gifts, Sherlock." 

"I do not," Sherlock had said, affronted.

"You. You wrote a bloody dissertation on how my friends all hate me!" John had said, his voice rising, his face flushing up red. "And then gave it to me for my birthday!" 

"It was meticulously researched," Sherlock had frowned. "I thought you'd find it helpful." 

"Helpful! I had to sit through dinner and three hours at the pub with those people!" 

"An unappealing way to pass the time, I'll grant you," Sherlock had said. "If you recall, I elected to decline that invitation." 

"Three hours, Sherlock. Three hours noticing every bloody—eye twitch—or strange expression, or awkward pause in the conversation—" 

"Oh," Sherlock said, brightening slightly. "Good. You memorized the tells. That's—" 

"Good?" John echoed. "No, Sherlock. Not good. That's not _good._ It's—" 

"I was just trying to save you some time." 

"You had it professionally bound, for Christ's sake!"

"It was a gift!" 

John had stared at him for a moment, his mouth half-open, and then he'd started laughing. It was a shocked, barking laugh, pinching off into giggles as he clamped a hand over his mouth. 

The corners of Sherlock's mouth had twitched and he'd given in without much of a fight, laughter bubbling up from somewhere deep in his chest. 

John shook his head, still laughing, eyes gleaming in the dim light. He'd leaned back against the wall. Sherlock had joined him, shoulders bumping. 

"Christ," John had said, his voice high and breathless and amused.

"Mm," Sherlock had agreed, still chuckling. His chest felt warm. 

"You only had to say, you know." 

Sherlock had chuckled again, the sound slowly dying in his throat. He'd swallowed, met John's gaze. His heart had thumped hard against his ribs. "Say?"

There was a flicker of something on John's face, there and gone. He nodded once, slowly. "Yeah." 

Sherlock shook his head, bewildered. His neck had felt strangely warm, his chest cold. His hands trembled. 

"I don't know what you mean," he'd said. His voice caught in his throat. 

John had stared at him, his eyes steady, his face serious. His chest still rose and fell at an elevated rate—a lingering effect of his earlier laughter, perhaps. Or perhaps not.

Sherlock had studied his face, seeking answers. 

After a moment, something shifted in John's expression. He'd looked away. 

"John?" Sherlock asked, still warm and cold and trembling, and suddenly quite certain that he'd done something wrong, somehow he'd poisoned the moment. 

"Never mind," John had said, lifting his head, and offering a smile. It was a forced smile, rigid and uncomfortable on his face, nothing at all like the warmth they'd just shared. "I was just—yeah. Mistaken. My fault." 

"John," Sherlock said, but John had already pushed away from the wall. 

From the pocket of his coat, Sherlock's phone had let out a breathy moan. 

John's shoulders had stiffened, and his step had faltered slightly, but he'd gone on up the stairs without looking back. 

Sherlock blinked away the memory, looked down at his hands in their leather gloves. He listened for signs of John, for the creak of a footstep, for Rosie's sleepy babbling. He heard nothing. 

Yes, John was different these days. But he had always been a mystery.

Sherlock turned and went out the door into the cold night air.


	3. Fruitcake

*

John sat at the edge of his bed, looked at Rosie in her cot. Listened to Sherlock's footsteps thud down the stairs. Waited for the slam of the front door. 

Silence. 

Sherlock would be putting on his coat, his scarf, his gloves. Armouring himself against the cold, and then heading out to meet Lestrade at the crime scene. 

Except he wasn't leaving. 

John shifted where he sat, uncomfortably aware of everything he was not hearing. There was still time, he knew. He could call out to Sherlock, ask him to wait. Bring Rosie downstairs to Mrs Hudson. He could follow Sherlock out into the night and let go of everything weighing on his mind. 

He stared at Rosie in her cot, did not move from where he sat. 

After what felt like hours, he heard the door. 

He waited another moment, and then went out into the hall, stepped cautiously downstairs. Sherlock's coat was gone. His own hung forlornly on the peg by the door. 

He went back upstairs into the flat, went into the kitchen. Looked at the table, at Sherlock's microscope and slides, stacked and tucked neatly to the side, well out of reach of Rosie's curious hands. Years ago, he'd have left it all scattered about, unconcerned, unapologetic.

John went to the fridge, opened it, looked inside. It was devoid of body parts. There was a small fruitcake, slightly uneven, wrapped in plastic on the top shelf. A handmade gift from a grateful client. Sherlock had accepted it without complaint. Sherlock did a lot of things without complaint, these days. 

John did not much care for fruitcake. He reached for it anyway, cut himself a small slice, stood with his back against the counter and ate it with his fingers, the texture slightly sticky, slightly chewy. He barely tasted it. 

He stared at the microscope and its neat pile of slides. His hand twitched, and he clenched it, dug his fingernails into his palm. He was suddenly quite angry that there was no mess. Sherlock was _messy._ Baker Street was a cluttered hodgepodge of curiosities, mismatched walls and strange smells. Baker Street had sharp edges and hidden hazards. 

Baker Street was everything he hadn't known he needed, back when he'd first returned to London after the war. 

After Sherlock had stepped off the roof at Barts, Mrs Hudson had cleaned the kitchen, had thrown away stray bits of human remains, had cleared off the flasks and beakers, had boxed up the microscope and assorted paraphernalia.

He used to nag Sherlock about the washing up, before. After, the sight of that clean kitchen had hit him like a kick in the gut, had sent him reeling, a terrible unthinking reminder that Sherlock was _gone,_ that he'd never again hunch over the scarred tabletop, never again rush through the flat in his dressing gown and lab goggles, hair askew, hands gloved but feet bare. 

John looked away. Sherlock was not dead, of course. He never had been. But the neat kitchen, the neat flat, was disconcerting, all the same. It left John off-kilter, homesick, aching for something he was not quite sure existed. 

He went into the sitting room, looked at the mantel. Mrs Hudson had done a bit of decorating, had put up the garland and the fairy lights. Sherlock had not put up so much as a token complaint. 

He looked out the window. It had begun to snow. When they were kids, he and Harry used to close their eyes and make a wish every year on the first snowfall. 

He was fairly sure that if he closed his eyes now, he would have no idea what to wish for at all.


	4. Snowball Fight

*

The ground was slick with ice as Sherlock tore across the Jubilee Bridge. A howling wind lashed at him, whipped frigid needles of sleet and snow into his face. 

The suspect was just ahead, barely visible through the snow. Sherlock's eyes streamed from the cold. He had lost Lestrade ages ago, when they'd startled the suspect out of the skip he'd been hiding in. Sherlock had taken off in pursuit, and though he'd heard Lestrade's heavy footsteps and shouts behind him initially, he'd been quickly lost to the howling wind and thundering race of his own pulse. 

His foot slipped and he swore as he grabbed at the railing to steady himself. Slushy snow had seeped through his shoes. 

He squinted against the wind, kept going. 

If John were with him, he'd have—

That didn't bear thinking about. John had elected not to accompany him. Something had upset John, something had shaken him, something had taken the warmth from his voice and the joy from his face. 

He paused, hands on the railing, breathing hard. He'd lost sight of the suspect. He started walking again, moving steadily forward, straining to see. 

The wind shrieked and howled. It was, for a moment, easy to forget that he was still standing on a footbridge in the heart of London.

He'd pursued a drug smuggling ring through the Himalayas, once. It had been the first strand of Moriarty's intricate web, and his first major operation after stepping off of the roof at Barts. His hunt had taken him through December, through bitter cold and snow and howling winds, and on Christmas Day he'd stumbled across the frozen corpse of one of the organization's leaders. Snow clung to the man's coat. His eyelashes had been frozen together, his face twisted in a grimace. 

Sherlock had stared at the corpse, had breathed in the dry cold air, had flexed his fingers in his thick gloves, and had briefly allowed himself to think of London, of Baker Street, of John, of _home._

Though he knew that it was scientifically impossible, the thought warmed him. There had been a fire, that last Christmas at Baker Street, crackling and glowing in the fireplace. There had been green garland and fairy lights, and though he'd eschewed the reindeer antlers (Mrs Hudson occasionally had the most appalling ideas) he had allowed himself to be coaxed into playing Christmas songs on his violin.

There had been people—he'd hated that, usually, but he hadn't minded. Not much. John had been stumbling and bumbling and trying to avoid offending his date, just one of the steady parade of ill-suited women he'd insisted on chasing. And there had been a mystery, a fine one, giftwrapped and left on the mantel courtesy of Irene Adler. 

He'd looked at the frozen corpse, and he'd thought of John and the way that John would catch his eye sometimes, the way his mouth would fall open and his eyes would narrow, the way he'd occasionally look as though he were taking a deep breath and gearing up to say something monumental. Something that never actually made it past his lips. 

He'd realized, there in the snow, that he wanted to hear whatever it was that John was not saying. John, who had looked at him with such a strange and fond expression on the stairs and had said _You only had to say, you know._

He hadn't known. Not then. But he'd _wanted_ to. 

He'd found the second drug smuggler hiding out in a monastery three days later. At the time, he'd thought: _This is easy. I'll be home within the month._

Instead it had taken two years. And by then—

Something hit him in the face, splitting his lip, stinging against his skin. Snow. 

Ahead, something loomed in the shadows. His suspect. There on the ground, his leg twisted at an unnatural angle. He was crawling towards the edge of the bridge. 

"Stop," Sherlock said. 

The man turned back, balled up another wad of wet, icy snow, hurled it in his direction. 

"You stay away from me," he snarled. 

Sherlock took another step forward, hand out. Through the snow, he could just make out the edges of the Eye, and behind that, the Aquarium—

The man took advantage of his momentary distraction, lurched to his feet with a pained cry. He took two stumbling, crashing steps towards Sherlock, bare hands grabbing at Sherlock's coat, throwing them both backwards into the railing. 

There was a burst of pain in his lower back, and then—horrifyingly—nothing, just the whistle of wind and his stomach lurching as the ground fell away below him, as he plunged down and down and down, and as the icy Thames closed over his head.


	5. Mistletoe

*

Upstairs, Rosie let out a muffled whimper. John tensed, waited to see if she would escalate into full-fledged crying. 

Silence. 

He stood up, went to the foot of the stairs, listened. She seemed to have settled. 

The flat felt strangely small, with Rosie asleep and Sherlock gone. John stood, uncertain and uncomfortable, his pulse up, his breathing elevated. He felt edgy and distracted, a bit loose at the seams, and he wondered, fleetingly, if this was how Sherlock felt on his danger nights. 

Bristol. Bristol with Rosie. It would be nice. A new beginning. A true new beginning, not a desperate attempt to grasp at times gone by. 

Sherlock would—

Who could say for sure what Sherlock would or wouldn't do? He was Sherlock. Mercurial. Aloof and attentive in turns. Busier than ever now that he'd stopped insulting clients so much. 

Sherlock was—he was Sherlock. John loved him. Needed him, though that was not the most comfortable thing to examine head-on. Sherlock had called him family and had _meant it._ He had invited John and Rosie into his home and had held himself in check, had cleaned his kitchen, had neatened his piles of clutter, had curtailed his more volatile experiments. He had done that for John, for Rosie, because he loved them (and there was no doubt there, none, it was simply a fact) but surely, _surely_ some part of him resented the intrusion. 

John knew where he was happiest. 

But it wasn't just about him, anymore. He had Rosie to consider. And Sherlock as well, Sherlock who had—who had given up so much of himself, over and over again. Was it fair of him to keep asking for more? 

His phone buzzed in his pocket. 

He reached down and touched it, did not lift it to look at the screen. Lestrade's case must have been a good one. He looked at the door, carefully did not think of the frozen, dismayed look on Sherlock's face when he'd turned him down. 

There was a sprig of mistletoe hanging in the doorway. 

Mrs Hudson must have put it there. How many times had he passed under it without noticing? 

There had been mistletoe in the doorway on that terrible Christmas, the one that had ended in gunfire and helicopters and panic, his own wild cornered-animal mix of fear and rage, the sight of Charles Augustus Magnussen dead at Sherlock's hand. 

_Tell her she's safe now,_ Sherlock had said, but that had been a lie, hadn't it, Mary had never been safe, not really, no matter how far and how long she ran—

But before that, there had been mistletoe in the doorway at Sherlock's parents' house. There had been Mr Holmes, pointing at it and raising his brows, offering up a cheeky smile. There had been Mary, heavily pregnant and dressed in red, making quiet conversation in the room just through that doorway. 

Sherlock's parents had not known the truth. 

Sherlock had told them that John was staying at Baker Street to assist with his recovery. They had both thanked him, separately, for being a good friend to their son. He'd looked at Sherlock, pale and wan and still moving slowly, and had not known what to say. 

They'd not known of his estrangement from Mary. They'd not known that he had not spoken a single word to her after they'd locked eyes over Sherlock's convulsing form. They'd not known that their silence towards each other was down to anything more than a minor quarrel, the kind couples had all the time around the holidays. 

They'd not known of the herculean effort he'd made, at Sherlock's urging, to look at the issue from all angles, to move past what had happened, to patch the hole that had been torn in his fledgling family. Because he had loved her. He had. Even after. Sometimes he did not know if that had made it better or worse. 

He'd given a tight smile in response to Mr Holmes' cheeky little grin, had nodded in Mary's direction in a way that he hoped had looked sufficiently convincing. And he'd gone into the kitchen to pour himself a drink, and on the way back down the hallway, he'd bumped into Sherlock. 

Sherlock, who smelled of cigarettes and wool, whose cheeks were ruddy from the cold, his hair slightly mussed from the wind.

He opened his mouth to say _Christ, Sherlock, you've only just been bloody shot, you really shouldn't be smoking_ and instead had said "Mistletoe." 

Sherlock had looked down at his feet for a moment, then looked up, his brow furrowed. 

And John had shut his eyes for a moment, breathed through his nose the way he did when he sought calm, and then had forced himself to laugh. It had sounded overloud and stilted to his own ears. He'd opened his eyes, pointed at the little sprig hanging overhead, clapped Sherlock on the shoulder. 

"That'd _really_ get people talking, yeah?" he'd said, and had laughed again, had shaken his head, had walked on past like his limbs weren't trembling, like his heart wasn't pounding. Like the thought had not just crossed his mind, ever briefly, of what it might be like to take Sherlock into his arms. 

His phone buzzed again, and then again, jarring him back to the present. He sighed, fished it out of his pocket. 

It was not Sherlock calling. It was Lestrade. 

"John," Lestrade said, and his voice was urgent. "We lost him. He went haring off after a suspect and—" 

John world exploded into a dull roar. He bolted down the stairs, phone pressed to his ear, Lestrade rattling words that he could not hear. 

"Mrs Hudson," he shouted, pounding on the door.

She opened it almost immediately. She was wearing an apron, the front dusted with flour. The hall smelled wonderfully of fresh baking. 

"Please," he said. "Sherlock is—Rosie—can you—" 

"I've got her, John," she said, stepping forward, giving his arm a squeeze. Her face was furrowed with concern. "Of course. Don't you worry about her. Go." 

He nodded, whirled, grabbing at his coat, yanking it on as he ran out into the swirling snow.


	6. Cold

*

Sherlock's head broke the surface and he _gasped,_ flailing, the icy water stinging his skin, his coat an anchor dragging him down, down, down—

He kicked his legs, tipped his head back, drew in another gasping breath of frigid winter air. He could just barely make out the bridge above through the darkness and swirling snow. 

Cold water. Hypothermia. Drowning. He shut his eyes, tried to think. He had files on this. He just needed to access them. His fingers were numb. His breath came in shocked, wild heaves. 

He needed to—he needed to get out of the water. Before his limbs quit functioning entirely. Based on the weak struggle his legs were making against the current, he estimated less than ten minutes before that happened. 

The shore. Where—?

He shouldn't have gone out without John. He should have tried once more. He should have asked. He should have—

He'd gotten a Christmas gift for Rosie. He'd gone to the shops. Early in the morning, so as to avoid the crush of holiday shoppers with their vacant expressions and slow shambling steps. A man had thrown a punch at him when he'd (helpfully) suggested that the gift he was buying for his wife was not to her taste. Even so, he'd prevailed, had returned home with his prize. Mrs Hudson had offered to wrap it, but he'd done it himself. Tucked it in the back of his bedroom wardrobe. John would not know to look for it there, but hopefully Mrs Hudson would remember. Christmas morning was important to children. Wasn't it? 

Mycroft had given him a model pirate ship, once. For Christmas. He'd promised to help Sherlock paint it, but he'd been busy with school and had never gotten around to it. It had stayed in its box, unused, untouched. He could have painted it on his own, he knew. But something about it had made him uncomfortable, uneasy, as if there were dark secrets lurking in somewhere below deck, strapped down in the cargo hold, just waiting for heavy seas to shake them loose. 

Water in his nose, his eyes. He sputtered, forced his eyes open. His legs kicked stiffly, much too slowly to do any good. He could not feel his fingers. His arms felt distant and heavy. 

Average temperature of the Thames was—was—he had data on this, he did, he'd done extensive research—twelve? Twelve degrees? Colder in winter. That meant—

Baker Street had been warm. He had missed it, while he was away. He'd thought it strange, that he'd grown so attached to a physical location. It had seemed rather dangerously close to sentiment. But he had. He had missed it. 

John was back at Baker Street. He had missed John, while he was away. Had he ever said so? He lost track, sometimes, of the things he thought and the things he said out loud. 

_John—_

Spike in blood pressure, increased respiration. Panic. Muscles slowing, becoming less responsive. He could not maneuver his arms enough to shrug out of the heavy wet wool of his coat. 

Snowflakes were settling on his face, in his eyes, his open gasping mouth. Frigid, dirty riverwater in his ears, his nose. He tried to kick his legs. Could not feel them. 

Underwater, the world faded to little more than the sound of his own frantic pulse, muted, subdued. He could not draw a breath.

There were things. Things he should have said.


	7. Christmas Cards

*

It all felt a bit like a slide show, brief snatches of colour and sensation, shifting dark blankness in between. 

John was in a taxi. The heat was blasting. 

"Hurry," he said. "I'll pay extra, just—just go." 

The cabbie had the radio turned up. Christmas carols. He tapped his hands on the steering wheel, hummed along. There was slush in the road. The sky was dark, swirling with snow. 

"He took off after the suspect," Lestrade's voice, in his ear. His mobile was hot where he had pressed it against his cheek. "You know how he gets. We lost him. They were headed towards Hungerford Bridge." 

Lestrade had lost Sherlock hundreds of times, over the years, John knew. Sherlock never waited. That was just what he did. Something about this time was different. Something about this time had Lestrade worried. 

The weather, perhaps. The closeness to the holidays. People were more desperate, this time of year, it seemed. More willing to do terrible things. 

_Tell her she's safe now,_ Sherlock, speaking over his shoulder with his hands in the air, his voice calm, resigned. Accepting. Magnussen, dead on the ground. 

Hungerford Bridge. The Golden Jubilee footbridges. A pretty walk on a nice evening, hazardous and icy on a night like this. Sherlock, alone on a winter's night, cornering a desperate man. 

The London Aquarium was just visible from the footbridge. 

He could see police lights through the swirling snow as the taxi drew close, and he thumped his fist on the seat in front of him.

"Here," he said. "Just—let me out here—"

He bolted before the taxi had even come to a complete stop, skidding through the slushy mess on the pavement, the snow and wind stinging his face as he ran forward. 

There was a man in the snow, slumped, faintly moving. _Sherlock._

Not Sherlock. The man looked up at him with baleful eyes as he drew close. Started to laugh. His leg was broken, his knuckles red and raw.

"Too late," he said as John dropped to his knees in the snow next to him, icy water soaking his jeans. "Too late." 

The white snow on the ground was a mess of footprints, a swirling chaos of uneven, struggling steps, a terrible sweep and smear through the slush at the edge, by the railing. 

_Too late._

John wrenched his coat off and threw himself over the railing without hesitating. 

The shock of icy water ripped his breath away, sent needles through his skin, set him flailing and gasping for the surface.

"Sherlock!" the howling wind swallowed his voice. Water in his mouth, his nose, splashing in his eyes. Hypothermia was a secondary concern. In water this cold, he could lose muscle function and drown in a matter of minutes. 

Not Sherlock. Not here, in view of the place where Mary had given her life. Not tonight, not because John had stubbornly decided to remain behind. 

He'd spent last Christmas in a haze of grief and anger, head heavy with drink, the curtains drawn, the outside world shut away. Rosie had cried and he'd tried to soothe her, but she took no comfort from him and he found he had little to offer. She'd cried and cried and he'd paced the rooms, looked at all of the things that Mary would never touch again. 

Molly had stopped by, had looked at him with wordless quiet sympathy. Her mouth had pulled tight. She'd bundled Rosie up into a warm winter coat and taken her for the evening. 

He'd been seized with a fit of restless activity, the need to _do_ something. He sat down to write out Christmas cards (better late than never, yeah?), caught himself signing the second one _with love, John and Mary._ Had torn it up, poured himself another drink, then set the whole batch of cards aflame in the kitchen sink, watched the drifting embers. The fire alarm had beeped. He'd taken the battery out, sat staring at the ashes. 

Then he'd put on his coat, had gone out into the night. It had been a warm night, for December. Coming off of a month of heavy rains. 

The lights had been on in Baker Street, and he'd stood on the pavement looking up, watching Sherlock's shadow flit back and forth past the windows. There had been no fairy lights, no decorations. 

He'd gone up to the door, had put his hand against it. Thought about going up the stairs. He'd hated Sherlock. He'd missed Sherlock. Nothing was right and it was Christmas and he'd signed his cards with a dead woman's name. 

The door had opened. Wiggins had come out, his face pale, his eyes glassy under the streetlamps. 

John had turned away, heartsick, the feeling mingling with rage and disgust and horror. He'd gone home. He'd cleaned out the sink. He'd poured himself another drink. 

There was something in the water just ahead of him, a dark shape bobbing in the shadows. 

"Sherlock," John gasped, wrapping one arm around Sherlock's chest, dragging him backwards. 

Sherlock's head lolled towards him, his skin white, wet cold hair trailing against John's neck. 

"I've got you," John said, as he kicked backwards, through the icy water towards the gathering police lights on the riverbank. "I've got you."


	8. Warming Up

*

Someone was shouting. 

The sound was muffled, indistinct. Sherlock's cheek pressed against cold hard ground. His legs did not want to work, his fingers stiff and useless. 

Someone was touching his back, hand gripping his shoulder. _John._

John's hand was in his hair, brushing it back from his face. Sherlock blinked, tried to focus on his face. John was speaking. His lips were moving. His brow was tight with concern. 

There were people all around. Shouting, moving fast. Someone put a hand against his neck, feeling for his pulse. Someone was pulling at his coat, dragging the heavy frozen weight of it away from his skin. He turned his head, looked for John. 

"Hey," someone said. "Stay with us. Hey." 

It was all too much. His blood roared in his ears. He shut his eyes. 

*

They insisted on keeping him overnight in hospital for observation. 

"You're very lucky," the doctor told him.

It was an idiotic thing to say. It hadn't been luck, it had been John. John, who he hadn't so much as glimpsed through the ambulance doors, who had not been there as the EMTs fussed over him and rubbed him down and tried to bring his body temperature back up. 

He grew bored of the heat packs and the warm towels and the oxygen quite quickly. Sat staring at the beeping monitors, watched his own heart rate. 

His eyes drifted closed, opened again. He had no way to contact John. His phone was dead. Surely he—

"Hi," John's voice came from the doorway. 

Sherlock's heart rate jumped. He turned towards John. Smiled. 

"You—" he said. His voice was dry, scratchy. He stopped, swallowed. 

"Yeah," John said. He was wearing a pair of hospital scrubs. His hair was mussed. He did not step further into the room. 

"Thank you." 

John lifted his hand, scratched at the back of his neck. He looked pained. 

"Are you—?" 

"I need to get back home," John said. 

"Oh," Sherlock said. He cleared his throat, looked down at his hands. "Right." 

John lingered for a moment, and there was that _look_ again, the one that made him seem on the verge of saying something earth-shaking, something monumental. 

Sherlock shut his eyes. Breathed deeply. 

"Wait," he said, speaking slowly, carefully. "There are things—I should—um. You should know, John. That I—" 

He opened his eyes. John was gone.


	9. Ghosts of Christmas Past

*

It was late when John let himself back into the Baker Street flat.

He went upstairs, stripped off his borrowed hospital scrubs, stood in the shower and scrubbed the lingering scent of the Thames from his skin. He shut his eyes. Thought of Sherlock, sodden and still on the riverbank. 

He dressed in warm pyjamas, lay down in his bed, stared at the ceiling. 

Sherlock was going to be all right.

John had gotten his arm around Sherlock's chest, had heaved him up out of the water and onto dry land even with that damned coat threatening to drag them both under. He'd taken hold of Sherlock's shoulder through the wet wool, had brushed strands of Sherlock's hair off of his forehead, had pulled him close and tried to calm his own racing heart. 

Sherlock had been conscious, though disoriented. His skin had been pale, waxen. He'd lain still as death there on the cold ground, and John had held him, spoken to him, told him he was going to be all right. He'd breathed his own shaking breath against Sherlock's cold skin, felt for the thump of his pulse, and wondered which one of them he was really meant to be reassuring with his words.

And then the EMTs had arrived, had taken over, and John stood aside. 

He'd been treated and released at the hospital, once they were satisfied with his body temperature. He'd waited around for hours after he'd been cleared to go. Had finally gone up and stood in the doorway to Sherlock's room. Just to—just to reassure himself. Just another close call. Nothing more than that.

"You left him there," Mary said. She stepped out from the shadows next to his wardrobe, folded her arms, frowned at him. "Bit rude." 

John shut his eyes. A miserable sound escaped his throat. Wetness had pooled on his cheeks and he swiped angrily at it. 

"You're not here," he said. 

"No," she agreed. There was a smile in her voice. He refused to look at her to confirm it. "I'm not. Though, it's an improvement over last time, this. You recognizing it." 

"Right," he said. He breathed out hard through his nose, reluctantly opened his eyes. 

Mary was smiling at him from where she'd perched at the foot of the bed. She was wearing the grey t-shirt and the blue jacket he'd last seen her in, her hair loose and curled. 

He looked at her, looked away. 

"Bristol," Mary said. She raised her brows at him, wrinkled her nose. "Really?"

"It'd be a nice change of pace," he said. "Good for Rosie." 

"John, you were bored out of your skull living in a townhouse in a quiet part of London. You can't honestly believe that—" 

"I wasn't—" he stopped at the dubious expression on her face. "It's not about me," he said instead, sharp. "Not anymore. It can't be." 

"Oh John," she said, and there was pity in her eyes. "You just keep on doing what you think everyone else wants." 

Not true. 

Sherlock had looked at him standing in the doorway and had smiled. His face had been pale, weary. That smile had lit him up. 

John had looked at Sherlock, at that smile. His hand had started to shake, badly. The sight of Sherlock in that hospital bed had twisted something in his chest. Hot shame had flooded his face, something cold and dark had settled in the pit of his stomach. 

Sherlock had smiled at him. 

The last time he'd looked at Sherlock in a hospital bed, he'd been the one to put him there.

"No," he said. He shook his head. Pressed his lips together. Looked at the wall. "I've done what I—I haven't given a single thought to anyone else." 

She laughed. It was a disbelieving sound, tinged with sadness.

"I cheated on you," he said, vicious now, sick to his stomach and hating himself. "Wasn't thinking of anyone but myself then, was I? Hm?" 

"If you say so," she said. 

He sat up, stared incredulously at her. 

"You're throwing that around like it could hurt me," she said. "Trying to make me angry so I'll shut up. But John— _I'm not really here._ So the only one you're actually trying to hurt is yourself." 

"You're dead," he said. "I needed you, and you died. So there's no—there's no bloody point to this." 

"You never needed me," she said. "You loved me, John. And I loved you. But I was never the person that you needed."

"That's not true," he said, but even as he spoke he could hear the lie in his voice. 

_Do you still miss me?_ she'd asked him (he'd asked himself) that day at St Caedwalla's, and he'd been brought up short, her words (his thoughts) like a shock of ice water to the face. Because he hadn't. For a few minutes, caught up in Sherlock's mad orbit again, he hadn't thought about Mary or his anger or his grief or his guilt. He hadn't. 

And that had stung. Oh, God, that had stung. He'd hated everything, in that moment. Everything and everyone. He'd wanted to tear it all apart, wanted them all to _hurt._

And he'd gotten what he wanted, hadn't he? 

"Why now?" he demanded. "It's been almost a year. Why are you here again now?" 

"That's a good question to ask yourself, John," Mary said. Her voice was quiet, a little sad.

He pressed the heels of his hands against his eyes, hard. When he lifted them away, the room was empty.


	10. Food and Drink

*

In the morning, John went downstairs to fetch Rosie.

Mrs Hudson gripped his forearm, looked at him with concerned, hooded eyes. Worried for Sherlock. It seemed they were always worried for Sherlock. 

"He'll be fine," John told her. He did not elaborate. Lestrade had called him a brave bastard on the riverbank, had slapped him on the back while he stood shivering and watching the EMTs fuss over Sherlock. 

It had not been bravery. Not when his own cowardice had sent Sherlock out into the night alone in the first place.

No, not bravery. Necessity.

He took Rosie upstairs, set her up in her little highchair. She babbled cheerfully at him, and he smiled, stroked the soft golden hair at the crown of her head. 

"Talked to your mum last night," he told her quietly as he fetched eggs out of the fridge, a frying pan out of the cabinet. 

Rosie paused to listen to his voice, then resumed babbling, slapping her little hands on the table in front of her. 

_You were bored out of your skull living in a townhouse in a quiet part of London._

"Went for a bit of a swim, too," he said. "It was cold. You wouldn't have liked it much." 

"Sher," Rosie said. 

"Yeah, he'll be home soon," John said. He looked down at the eggs, sizzling and popping. Took the pan off of the heat. 

He scooped some of the eggs into a bowl for Rosie, waited for them to cool. Poured some juice into her sippy cup and set it in front of her. She seized it with both hands, grinned at him. 

"He'll be home soon," John repeated. He swallowed, looked away.


	11. Violin

*

The coat was ill-fitting, unfamiliar. Scratchy wool against his neck. Sherlock tugged at it, frowned. The buttons at the front were a cheap plastic. One was coming loose. 

Lestrade had brought him a change of clothes. Had held out his own spare winter coat with a hesitant smile and a sigh.

"Since yours—well. You know." 

Sherlock hadn't known, but it wasn't much of a surprise. It bothered him more than it should have. 

"I'll drive you," Lestrade said. 

"I'll take a cab."

Lestrade opened his mouth, shut it again. Shook his head. He did not look annoyed, merely resigned. 

"Right," Lestrade said, after a time. He reached out, clapped a hand on Sherlock's shoulder. "Glad you're all right. You had us worried." 

Sherlock thought of John standing in the doorway, the frozen expression on his face. Thought of the words he'd tried to force out, the words he'd been holding in for so long, the words that John had not wanted to hear. 

Lestrade's hand was still on his shoulder. His face was kind. It was almost too much to bear. "Come on. It's Christmas Eve. Sure you won't let me drive you?" 

Sherlock straightened up, sniffed, did his best to look bored. "Mm, no. I do have a reputation to uphold." 

He took a taxi from the hospital, sat alone in the back in his uncomfortable and unfamiliar coat, tried not to sigh too loudly every time the driver braked for traffic. 

It had stopped snowing, and the streets and pavement were a slushy mess. Sherlock watched last-minute shoppers (some rosy-cheeked and laughing, others looking altogether grim) as they milled about on the pavement, bags clutched in gloved hands. 

_There are things…_

John's face, frozen, twisted, seemingly at war with himself. The way he'd leaned in the doorway, the way his hand had trembled and he'd tried to hide it by rubbing at the back of his neck. 

The way he had not stepped over the threshold into Sherlock's room. 

_There are things…_

There would always be _things,_ Sherlock suspected. He ran into trouble when he tried to voice them. It was not his strong suit. It never would be. 

The cabbie stopped at a red light, and Sherlock watched a man emerge from a storefront laden with shopping bags, a small child in a winter coat bounding ahead of him. The child had bouncing blond curls, was pink-cheeked and grinning. 

The sight twisted something in his chest, and he turned away, his gaze falling on a street musician standing at the edge of the kerb. The man was dressed far too lightly for the weather. His hair was cropped short, though he had the unkempt beginnings of a beard. The violin he clutched in his ungloved hands was beautiful. 

"Stop," Sherlock said. 

The cab stopped. Sherlock paid, then slipped out into the bitter cold. He burrowed his neck into the scratchy collar of his coat, shivered. Leaned against the nearest building and watched. 

The man was almost certainly homeless. There was a tension in his posture, a proud set to his shoulders that spoke to a military history. A quick glance at the tanned skin of his hands, fading to pallor at the wrists, confirmed it. 

A soldier. Fairly recently discharged. 

The violin gleamed. It was well cared for, clearly a prized possession. The man cradled it, caressed it, coaxed music from its strings like a lover. Christmas songs. One after another after another, blending seamlessly together, old and new, jaunty and sad, cloying and melancholy. The man's eyes were closed, his mouth unsmiling. Every note rang out clear, haunting. Beautiful. 

Sherlock's vision blurred. He shut his eyes, brought his hand up to rub at them. His cheeks were wet. 

He breathed out, shaky. His entire body seemed to be trembling. 

The man finished playing, let the last note hang in the air. Pedestrians continued to bustle by, traffic continued to clog the streets. It seemed wrong, somehow, that all of London was not held in thrall, that the world had not paused in the face of such beauty. 

Sherlock slipped the coat off of his shoulders. The cold air bit at him. 

He draped the coat over the man's violin case. He turned away, fell into step with the crowds, his shoulders hunched against the wind.


	12. Winter Wonderland

*

The morning passed slowly into afternoon. 

John cleared away the breakfast plates, washed up, wiped down the table. He bathed Rosie, set her up in the sitting room with a pile of toys. He plugged in the fairy lights, even though it was still bright outside. 

He sat down at his laptop, read his email. There was a note from Sarah, and he hesitated for a moment before taking a deep breath and clicking on it. 

_Hi John,  
I was happy to have the chance to speak with you yesterday. It was nice to catch up. If you're truly interested in the position, how about coming out on Friday? You can bring the little one, have a look around._

He stared at her words for a long time, pressed the back of his hand against his mouth. 

Thought of Sherlock, waxy and cold, unmoving on the banks of the Thames. John had thrown himself over the railing and into the water without a second thought. Had gotten his arm around Sherlock's chest and had pulled Sherlock's chilled body against his. 

Rosie had spent last Christmas with Molly because he'd been so far up his own arse that he could barely tend to her needs. And if last night had gone differently, if Sherlock had—if _he_ had—

Well. His daughter might have found herself an orphan before she'd even reached age two. 

And Sherlock had looked up at him from his hospital bed, weary and bedraggled but all right, and he'd smiled. A real smile. His tired eyes had brightened. 

He'd smiled. 

Christ. John could see that smile when he closed his eyes. He didn't deserve that smile. 

_Sure, Friday sounds good,_ he typed, and then sent the email without allowing himself to hesitate. Shut his laptop. Stared at the wall. After a moment, he stood. 

Rosie had created a traffic jam out of toy cars. She'd flipped one of them onto its back, was spinning the wheels with the tip of one finger. 

He looked down at her, chuckled, shook his head. Stepped carefully over the cars. Switched on the radio, found a station playing Christmas music. 

The flat was festive, cosy.

Rosie abandoned her cars, toddled over to him with clumsy steps. He bent to pick her up, tucked her against his chest. She tilted her head, listened to the music. 

_Sleigh bells ring_   
_Are you listening_   
_In the lane_   
_Snow is glistening_

"You're a bit young to master the waltz," John said, as he turned slow circles around the room with Rosie in his arms. 

_A beautiful sight_  
 _We're happy tonight_  
 _Walking in a winter wonderland_

"You should focus on walking first," he murmured against the crown of her head. "Then we'll revisit the whole dancing thing. It's not so bad, you know. Thought I'd be pants at it. But Sherlock showed me the steps."

_Gone away is the blue bird_   
_Here to stay is the new bird_

"He's a good teacher," he said. "Well. You already know that. But I didn't. At the time." 

There were a lot of things he hadn't known at the time. The memories made his heart heavy.

Rosie cooed and babbled and tried to chew on his shirt collar. He shut his eyes and rocked his daughter to the music and tried not to think of Sherlock, of that wide genuine smile. Sherlock had shut his eyes and John had fled, had gone striding off down the corridor like a coward. He did not want to think about what had happened to that smile when Sherlock had opened his eyes to find him gone. 

There was a creak behind him and John startled, turned around. 

Sherlock stood in the doorway. He was clad in ill-fitting clothes. His cheeks were red with cold, his hair windblown. He did not have a coat. 

Rosie made a delighted sound, reached out her hands. 

"Jesus," John said. "I didn't know you were—" 

Sherlock stared at him, his eyes wide and unblinking and terribly blank, as if the sight of John there in the sitting room had wiped his hard drive. His eyes were rimmed red, John noticed. Perhaps the wind had caused them to tear.

"John," Sherlock said. It came out tentative, questioning. 

"Yeah," John said. "Sorry. I—I should have found out when you were being discharged. I'd have met you with—" He stopped again, looked Sherlock over. "Er, where did you get those clothes?" 

Sherlock looked down. He moved slowly, as if confused. He touched the hem of the shirt he wore, rubbed it between his fingers. "Lestrade." 

John pressed his lips together, heartsick and guilty all over again. He shifted Rosie in his arms. 

"You're cold," he said, feeling stupid and tongue-tied. 

Sherlock looked up at him again. There was no smile on his face. He looked tired, worn out, unhappy. 

"Sher," Rosie said. She squirmed in John's arms and he set her down on the ground, watched as she flung herself forward to grab at Sherlock's leg. 

"You're still here," Sherlock said. He blinked once, slowly. Looked down at Rosie, then back at John. 

"Yeah of course," John said, shaking his head a little, even as he thought of the email from Sarah with a fresh flood of shame. "Of course I'm still here."


	13. In Front of the Fire

*

Sherlock showered, dressed. He felt better in his own clothes, the familiar fabric comfortable against his skin. Through the wall, he could still hear the faint strains of music. John had left the radio on, though there were no noises to suggest that he'd resumed dancing his slow circle with Rosie. 

He straightened his jacket, went out into the hall. 

John was on the sofa, newspaper open in front of him. He was not reading it. His attention had been caught by Rosie, who was sprawled on the floor in front of the coffee table, assembling an impressive pileup of toy cars. 

Sherlock hesitated, then went into the room. Crouched down next to Rosie, uncomfortably aware of John's eyes on him. 

"Not bad, Watson," he told her, looking at the cars. He reached out, tapped his finger on the top of one which was lying on its side. "Though if you're going for realism, an accident where the car is struck from this direction would actually result in something more like this." He picked up the car, carefully set it on its other side. 

Rosie stared at him. She appeared unimpressed.

He frowned, worried at his lip. Reached out, spun the wheels on the car. 

She giggled. Copied his motion. 

He touched the back of her head, smiled. Left her to her game. 

It was cold in the flat. Or perhaps he was still feeling the residual effects from his dip in the Thames. 

He lit the fire, settled into his chair, fixed his gaze on the warm golden glow. He could not quite bring himself to look over at John. 

"Sherlock," John said. There was a shift and a creak of leather as he sat forward on the sofa. 

Sherlock kept his gaze on the fire. He did not blink. His eyes began to sting. 

"I'm sorry," John said. It came out all in a rush, a choked jumble of words.

"Nothing to be sorry for," Sherlock said. "You saved my life. And not for the first time. I'm in your debt." 

John's exhale whistled through his teeth. There was something disgusted in that sound, almost startling in its vehemence.

Sherlock looked over at him, frowned. 

John held his gaze. He seemed to want to speak, seemed at war with himself. 

_There are things…_

Sherlock quashed the thought. 

John had not looked away. He was at the edge of the sofa, his left hand balled into a fist, pressed into his upper thigh. He looked tired, tense. Unhappy. 

He'd looked tired and tense and unhappy the night before, too. 

And then all at once it coalesced, and Sherlock tore his gaze away, pulled his legs up under him in the chair, set his chin on his knees. Shut his eyes. 

Leaving. 

John was leaving. He'd given it a go. No one could argue that he hadn't. He'd tried to make the best of it, moving back in to Baker Street with his daughter in tow, but clearly the environment was not what he needed. What _they_ needed. It—

It was messy. It was mismatched walls and sharp edges and hidden hazards.

Well, Sherlock had _tried._ He'd made an effort to keep things a bit cleaner. He kept sharp objects and dangerous chemicals out of reach. He'd stopped leaving bits of human remains lying around. 

Not enough. He'd known it, of course. He'd always known it wouldn't be enough. He'd known quite well, and he'd tried anyway, because—because—

Because of reasons Mycroft would surely call foolish. Or perhaps not. Hard to say. Mycroft was different these days. They all were. 

The fire put off a warm, cosy glow. It made a pleasing crackling sound. He turned his head towards it, watched the flickering golden light.

This was the end, then. 

There had been many false endings, of course. Many close calls, many near misses. Yet those ends had never seemed permanent. Those ends had come with raised voices and shouting and tears and anger. John's rage burned hot and brief, and there had still been fire there, burning, consuming, never quite fully doused. 

A John who burned energy on hating him was still a John who _cared._

This—

This was worse. This would be a civil end, a peaceful one. This would be _You're still my best friend, Sherlock, of course_ and _You know I'll stay in touch_ and all of the other meaningless platitudes people say when they're too polite to say goodbye.

Parting in anger and sorrow and harsh words—that he could handle. Parting peacefully, shaking hands and going their separate ways as friends because whatever was between them had cooled—

_There are things…_

Things that would not, could not be said.

The fire was warm. Regardless, Sherlock felt the chill down to his bones.


	14. Naughty or Nice

*

"Oh," Mrs Hudson said, tipping a bottle of bourbon into a bowl of egg nog. "Another year, almost gone. Can you believe it?" 

John smiled politely, leaned against the counter in her cramped little kitchen. Watched as she added another healthy splash of liquor, almost certainly more than the recipe called for. 

"The little one looks so lovely in her dress," she said, and her voice was tremulous enough to make John wonder if she'd started in on the refreshments before he'd joined her. 

"Yeah," he agreed, smiled. The dress, a red crushed-velvet affair, was horrifically impractical but would certainly make for nice photographs if he could manage it before Rosie opted to spill something down her front or otherwise make a mess of herself. 

"Nice having you here," Mrs Hudson continued. She started to replace the cap on the bourbon, hesitated, added another splash. "Makes him happy, don't you think?" 

John pressed his lips together, looked away. The Sherlock he'd left upstairs, the one silently staring into the fire, had certainly not looked happy. 

_And whose fault is that?_ the voice in his head sounded suspiciously like Mary. 

Mrs Hudson tutted over the bowl of egg nog, reached again for the bourbon.

"Ah—" John said. He snatched the bottle up off of the table. "I think that's more than enough, yeah?" 

"Oh, you," Mrs Hudson swatted at him. "It's Christmas Eve. What better time to be a bit naughty?" 

"I think I'll try nice, this year," he said. He made sure the cap was on the bottle, stooped to tuck it away back in Mrs Hudson's little liquor cabinet. 

He thought again of Sherlock, of the distant, unhappy expression on his face. 

He breathed out, hard, brought his hand up to cover his mouth. Shut his eyes. 

Mrs Hudson's hand curled around his arm, her palm cool. He turned, startled, to find her looking quite seriously at him, her eyes bright. 

"It's so nice to have you here again, John," she said. "I don't know if I've told you that. This past year has been so—" her voice cut out and she sniffed, squeezed his arm tighter. "My heart has broken for you. And for Sherlock—" 

He reached out for a clumsy one-armed embrace, patted her gently on the back. 

Behind her, Mary leaned against the far wall, arms crossed. 

"Pretty sure that Father Christmas has you down for the naughty list, John," Mary said. She raised her brows, gave a rather pointed look upstairs. 

"I’m just so glad you're home," Mrs Hudson said, and John shut his eyes again, nodded, let her hug him.

He could not quite bring himself to contradict her.


	15. The Case of the Frozen Corpse

*

John was downstairs. 

Sherlock had sat quietly in front of the fire for what could have been minutes or hours—hard to say, really, he tended to lose track of time when he got to thinking about something. He was cold. He shivered a bit.

At some point, John had scooped Rosie up on the floor and carried her off upstairs, had brought her back down in a new dress. Red. Crushed velvet. Tulle and frills and all of the kinds of things an adventurous toddler would gleefully set about destroying. 

John had put Rosie back down on the ground by her toys, had disappeared downstairs with some uncomfortable mumbling about assisting Mrs Hudson. Predictably, Rosie immediately began tugging at the dress. 

Sherlock heard the distinct sound of tearing tulle. He looked away from the fire, cleared his throat. 

"Best not," he said. 

Rosie paused, a bit of gauzy fabric held between her hands. She blinked at him, wide-eyed. 

"At least wait for the photographs. There are bound to be photographs. Grownups like that sort of thing." 

Rosie looked back down at her hands. Went back to tearing. The sound of the tulle ripping was quite loud in the otherwise quiet flat. 

He sighed, stood up, went to her. 

She stopped tearing at the fabric, watched him carefully, waited to see what he would do. 

He bent, picked her up off of the ground. Set her in his chair, carefully arranged the rumpled skirt of the dress around her while she was too shocked to do much about it. Paused, scanned the flat for a moment before his eyes landed on the skull. It grinned cheerfully out from below the furred trim of a Santa hat. 

Not ideal, he thought, but needs must.

He plucked the skull from the mantel, held it out. Rosie grabbed at it with the insatiable curiosity he'd come to expect from her. She goggled at it for a moment, then reached for the white pom pom at the top of the hat, tried to put it in her mouth. 

Well, it was only going to get worse if he delayed further. He took his phone out of his pocket, snapped a few pictures. Made a silly face to catch her attention, and she stopped trying to drool all over the hat and instead grinned at him. 

There. At least now, when she inevitably ruined her dress, no one could complain that they hadn't gotten any pictures. 

He took the skull back, feeling badly for the distressed sound she made at its loss. She watched him raptly as he carried it back to the mantel, set it back in its place. The hat was slightly damp. He doubted anyone would notice. 

He shivered again, though he stood in front of the fire. The chill of the Thames had not quite left him, it seemed. He wanted to change into pyjamas, to bury himself under blankets, to sleep until he was warm again. But—

Well. It was Christmas Eve, and they were, apparently having _people_ over. And while he ordinarily would not have let that stop him from doing what he wanted to do, he thought that perhaps he might find himself in want of the extra armour a crisp suit afforded. 

He shivered again. Rosie was fussing, trying to find a way down from his chair and to the floor, to resume either playing with her toys or tearing her dress. He lifted her down, careful, gentle. Sat in the space she'd vacated, went back to looking at the fire. 

He closed his eyes and was back in the Thames, sinking, gasping, his limbs leaden and frozen. John was behind him, harsh pants of breath against his ear as he swam, as he pulled them both backwards. 

_I've got you,_ John had said. 

In the Himalayas, squared off against the screaming wind, squinting into the bright light reflected off of endless snow—he'd thought of John, of Baker Street, and he'd been warm. He'd crouched, had studied the frozen corpse of the man he'd been pursuing, had read the details of his miserable cold demise in the twist of his face, the frostbite on his nose and fingers. Had read the betrayal of his partner in the curl of frozen skin under the man's fingernail. They'd fought. She'd run. 

Sherlock had had a suspicion where she'd run to. He'd been right. 

_You'll tell me all about it,_ John had said in his mind. There had been humour in his voice, indulgent. _When you get back. I'll write it up. The Case of the Frozen Corpse._

He had not, in fact, told John all about it when he got back. John had not been in much of a mood for listening. 

Cold.

It had been cold in his cell in Serbia. Cold and dark and damp. He'd thought of the fire at Baker Street, thought of John in his chair with a glass of whisky, the ice clinking gently against the side. Had thought of John's face, relaxed and open. 

_Just a delay,_ the John-in-his-head would say, tipping his drink towards him in a kind of salute. _Nothing you can't handle._

Nothing he couldn't handle. And he had. Handled it. He was Sherlock Holmes, after all, known to be indestructible. 

He would handle this, too, he thought. Whatever this was.


	16. Stuck at Home

*

Molly was the first to arrive. She hugged Mrs Hudson, and then hesitated by the kitchen, looking from John to Rosie to Sherlock, a tentative smile playing on her lips. 

John went to her, and she nodded when their eyes met. There was something like relief on her face. She was remembering, then, he realized. Remembering the state he'd been in last Christmas, when she'd come to check on him and had wound up leaving with Rosie. 

He poured her a glass of red wine, and she took it, went into the sitting room to speak with Sherlock. He watched them for a moment, Sherlock in his chair, staring into the fire, Molly crouching to bring their faces level. Whatever he said, or did not say, seemed to trouble her. She pursed her lips, took a sip of her wine. 

Rosie was starting to kick up a fuss at being ignored. She'd gotten to her feet, taken a handful of wobbling steps to get to Molly's side, grabbed at her trouser leg. 

"Oh, hello you," Molly said, smiling, a genuine smile, the nervousness and tension bleeding away from her expression. She shifted, gave Rosie her full attention. "Look at that pretty dress—" 

John saw what was going to happen a split-second before it did. 

Rosie, in her infinite enthusiasm, seized a handful of Molly's hair and _yanked._ Molly let out a startled cry, unbalanced, her left hand flying out to catch herself on the arm of Sherlock's chair and her right hand splashing the full contents of her wine glass down the front of Rosie's dress. 

"Oh for—" John cut himself off, shut his eyes, pinched the bridge of his nose. He'd _known_ something like this would happen, he should have taken photos before Rosie had the opportunity to spill or tear or otherwise destroy that damned dress—

"I'm so sorry—" Molly was saying, and Mrs Hudson was rushing to the rescue with towels, and Rosie had thrown her head back and had started to _shriek,_ sensing the rising tension in the room and even Sherlock had joined in, now, was scooping Rosie up off the ground to soothe her while John stood in the doorway with his mouth agape and his hand pinching his nose and feeling more superfluous than he ever had before in his life. 

He turned around and went down the stairs, the shrieking, wailing cacophony retreating behind him. He ignored his coat, went through the front door and out into the cold night, his breath steaming in front of him. He took one, two, then three steps before stopping, putting his hands on his knees, letting his head drop with a miserable little groan. 

He couldn't very well just _leave._ Not in the middle of the Christmas Eve 'do that he'd helped arrange, not with his daughter screaming bloody murder and a mess seeping into the carpet.

Baker Street was quiet, quieter than usual. It was a cold, clear night, and he found himself tipping his head back to look up at the stars. 

_Beautiful, aren't they?_ Sherlock's voice, in his head.

They were, John thought. Beautiful. 

John had gone out alone into the night that first Christmas after Sherlock had—after he'd died. After he'd held out his hand and said goodbye from a rooftop and dashed himself against the cold ground. 

John had been unable to stay at Baker Street, then, not with Sherlock's things being slowly cleaned and boxed away. Not in that flat, where the very walls seemed to pulse with the memory of him, where his essence still lived and breathed and hung suspended like dust motes in the air. 

He'd left. And then he'd realized, to his dismay, that he could not outrun a ghost. 

That first Christmas had hit him hard. He'd found it impossible not to think of the last one, that terrible and awkward and _wonderful_ Christmas, the first and only one he'd shared with Sherlock, the one that felt like it could have been the start of forever. 

He'd gone out into the night, had looked up at the stars, had thought of Sherlock looking up at them too. Had wished, at the time, that Sherlock was somewhere where he could see the sky.

He'd found an open pub, gone in for a drink, settled amongst a handful of slumped, miserable-looking men along the bar. 

Oh, the things Sherlock could have deduced about that lot, he'd thought. 

The bartender had been young and lovely. Cream-pale skin, long dark hair. Light eyes. She'd had a quick wit and a generous smile and she'd teased him a bit, maybe flirted, and he'd made a halfhearted effort to flirt back. Christ, she'd been pretty. It had felt good, noticing another person again. 

And at some point she'd looked up at the television over the bar and she'd tossed her hair and rolled her eyes and said _Boring_ and it had cut through him like a knife, a searing, sharp pain that should have been easing off, should have been bearable by then, but it wasn't, it wasn't getting better _at all._ He'd looked at her and all he could think was _Oh, God, Sherlock_ and he'd stumbled from his barstool and back out into the night. He'd walked home with his hands in his pockets, his gaze firmly fixed on the ground in front of him. 

He had not let himself look at the stars. 

There was a tear running down his cheek, cold against his skin, and he brushed it away, irritated. 

"John." 

He turned. Sherlock stood just in the doorway, watching him with pensive eyes. The expression on his face was closed-off, unreadable. 

"Sorry," John said. He swiped the back of his hand across his eyes again. Cleared his throat. "I'll be right up." 

Sherlock hesitated—there was something at war just behind his eyes and John _hated_ it, hated everything that had happened between them to cause that hesitation—and then he stepped out of the flat entirely, let the door swing shut behind him. 

He was wearing his suit jacket, but no coat, and he shivered. 

"Watson's fine," he said, his voice low. "Molly found her something else to wear." 

"Yeah," John said, looking away, not quite able to meet his eyes. "Great. That's—great." 

_I'm failing her,_ he thought, miserably. _Again._

Sherlock lingered, not quite close enough to touch. He shivered again. 

"Are you—" he started.

"Fine," John said. "I'm fine." 

Sherlock let out a huff of breath. "You're quite clearly not." 

"You've just got out of hospital," John deflected, looking him over. "Why aren't you wearing a coat?" 

Something startlingly vulnerable passed over Sherlock's face, and John thought of that coat, the heavy sodden weight of it, saturated with cold and stinking river water, pushed off of Sherlock's shoulders and down into Thames mud. Trampled. Abandoned. Left.

"Oh," John said. "Right." He nodded, looked away. He felt, suddenly, like he might cry. He did not know why. 

Sherlock reached out, a tentative hand settling on John's shoulder. It was warm and solid, that hand, though it perched like a timid bird ready to take flight. 

John breathed out slowly. Turned his head back towards Sherlock.

Sherlock was looking up at the stars.


	17. Scarf and Coat

*

Sherlock stood by the fire, coaxing life back into his cold hands. 

He had waited outside, head tilted towards the night sky, the palm of his hand curled lightly over John's shoulder. John had not spoken further, but had, after a time, reached up and touched Sherlock's hand, a brief squeeze, light pressure there and gone. An acknowledgement. A thanks. 

He'd stepped away. They'd gone inside, back up the stairs, bringing the chill of the winter night with them. Mrs Hudson had turned the radio on. 

Lestrade had arrived. He'd been in high spirits, halfway to drunk already from whatever party he'd come from, and he and John had thrown back one set of drinks, and then another. Their voices grew progressively louder, their laughter progressively looser. John seemed determined to shake off the melancholy that had seized him earlier, and though his mirth had a forced quality to it the sound was still welcome. 

Sherlock remained by the fire and let that sound warm him.

Rosie had nodded off on the sofa, and Molly had covered her with a blanket. She'd come over to the fire after, stood next to him for a time, not speaking. 

She had questions, unspoken. He did not quite have the words to thank her for not voicing them. 

It occurred to him that his first Christmas in the Baker Street flat, the one he thought back on most fondly, was likely not such a fond memory for her. He'd treated her badly.

He turned to look at her, took in the tense pinch of her mouth, the line between her eyes, the stiff shoulders. The way the knuckles of her right hand had gone white where she gripped her wine glass. 

He swallowed. Opened his mouth to ask—

"You should tell him," she said. Her voice was low, flat. She did not look away from the fire. 

Her words surprised him. She often surprised him. 

"Tell—?"

"You know what I'm talking about. Don't pretend that you don't," she spoke quickly, quiet yet vehement, as if the words were difficult to force out. Something twisted in her expression and she breathed in sharply, took a sip of her wine. "And don't. Don't make fun. It's just—you're so unhappy. Both of you. Everyone thinks that I can't see it, but I do. I do see it. And—" 

"I know," Sherlock said, cutting her off. He did not think he could bear to hear any more. He softened his voice, turned to look at her fully. There were tears in her eyes. It might have just been the reflection from the firelight. "I know that you see me, Molly. I know you always have." 

She let out a sad little hiccup of a laugh, twisted the stem of her wine glass between her fingers. 

"Then stop being stupid," she said. "Stop—stop _waiting._ It's always a—it's always something horrible. Always. With you. And it's not your fault, it's just—it's just the way it is. But there are only so many horrible things that someone can reasonably be expected to—" she cut herself off, took another swallow of wine. 

Warmth had crept into his face. He did not know what to say. 

"I'm sorry," he tried. 

_There won't be anything else horrible,_ he could not quite bring himself to add. _Not the way that you mean. John is planning on leaving, and he's going to do it kindly, and we'll part on good terms. And yet somehow that's more horrible than any other outcome I could ever imagine._

"Don't be sorry," she said, and she looked at him. Her face was earnest, a little flushed from the wine. Her eyes were quite sad. "Don't be sorry." 

"Oh, are we having a Christmas party? Charming. I'll assume my invitation was lost in the mail." The voice was dry, unimpressed, unexpected.

Sherlock whirled around. Mycroft stood in the doorway, primly slipping off his gloves. 

"Why are you here? You hate Christmas. Go away." 

Mycroft raised his brows, a brief flicker of genuine surprise, and Sherlock felt an uncomfortable stab of remorse for his sharpness. 

_Mild_ remorse. 

In the kitchen, a cheerful shout, a clinking of glasses. Mrs Hudson's tinkling laughter. Behind him, a rustle of fabric as Molly moved away from the fire, went to join the others. 

"Don't fret, Sherlock, I'm not here to crash your little 'do," Mycroft cast a dubious glance around the room. "Merely dropping off a bit of seasonal cheer, and I'll be on my way." 

Sherlock scowled. "Seasonal cheer? What—a gift? You? You've bought presents? Who are you and what have you done with my brother?" 

"One present," Mycroft said. "Only one. Well—two, I suppose, if you insist on being precise. I've always rather considered them a matched set, myself." 

Sherlock brushed past him, went out onto the landing. His gaze fell on a large shopping bag tucked against the wall. He glanced up, frowned at the bland expression on Mycroft's face. He could tell nothing of the contents of the bag, nothing of its origin. There were creases in Mycroft's trousers where he'd sat in the back of a too-warm car, a smattering of crumbs from a late lunch clinging to his suit jacket. Nothing else. No hints. 

He looked away. Bent to rummage in the bag. 

His fingers came up against familiar wool. He froze. Blinked. Curled his hands around the fabric without withdrawing it from the bag. 

"They—" his voice was hoarse, barely audible. He cleared his throat, tried again. "They don't make this. Anymore." 

"I know," Mycroft said. "Lucky for you, I took note of your careless nature years ago and procured—replacements. Just in case. You do tend to grow attached." 

Sherlock shut his eyes, breathed out hard through clenched teeth. Stood up and let the full length of the coat spill out of the bag. There was a scarf draped around the neck; dark blue cashmere. 

"I am infinitely glad that you are all right, Sherlock," Mycroft said quietly. 

The wool was brighter than he remembered, untouched by years of London grime and rain and blood. It smelled new, unfamiliar. It would need to be broken in, a bit, so that it fell just so. 

Still, it was—it was—

He gripped the wool tightly, stared at it. As a child, given such a gift, he might have embraced it and then Mycroft in turn. 

"Stay," he said, instead. "You should stay. Have a drink."


	18. Favorite Tradition

*

John had had too much to drink.

It occurred to him slowly, belatedly, even as he lifted his glass to his lips and swallowed. It was not unlike his stag night, the sudden slip from pleasantly inebriated to stumbling drunk. He'd have scolded Lestrade for letting it get to that point, but Lestrade was even worse off than he was. 

The night had taken on a warm, hazy quality. 

Mycroft was there. He was perched at the edge of the sofa with a brittle, polite smile on his face, listening to Mrs Hudson natter on about something. John did not recall seeing him arrive. 

Lestrade had gone blundering around in the kitchen looking for the coffee maker. Sherlock had made a comment—some crack about detectives and—finding things. John could not recall the specifics. He'd found it quite funny, however, had dissolved into giggles against the kitchen counter. Sherlock had looked pleased, though he had not offered to help with the search. 

Molly had taken pity and intervened, eventually. After some maneuvering, Lestrade found himself arranged up against the wall with a mug of strong black coffee cradled in his hands. 

Someone had carried a sleeping Rosie up to bed. Sherlock. It must have been. Molly had been busy with the coffee. A deduction. He'd just made a deduction. That was—that was good. He should tell Sherlock. 

John's glass was empty. He put it down.

It was a nice party. He was having a nice time. It was surprising. He had not expected to have a good time. He'd been—worried. About things. 

About Sherlock. About the job offer in Bristol. Mostly about Sherlock. Sherlock had fallen in the river. Sherlock had nearly _died._ And that was—

"John." Sherlock's voice, very close, quiet and concerned. 

John jumped, turned to look at him. Sherlock was wearing his politely blank face, the one he defaulted to in crowded rooms. 

"You don't need to be polite," John said. His voice felt mushy in his mouth. "It's all family here." 

"Yes," Sherlock said, and he was smiling a little bit now, just the barest pull at the edge of his mouth. 

It was an appealing expression, one that was easy to miss unless you knew where to look. John knew where to look. 

"Though, tomorrow I fear you'll regret telling me not to be polite," Sherlock continued, and he reached out, hesitated. There was a moment where his hand hung in the air between them before he settled it solidly on John's shoulder, steered him towards the sofa. 

"I meant your face," John offered helpfully. 

For some reason that made Sherlock smile again. He did not respond. 

John sat down on the sofa. It was very comfortable. He leaned back against the cushions. 

"Oh," he said. He struggled to blink his eyes open. He did not recall when they'd slipped closed. "I made a—I did a—I deduced." 

"Did you?" Sherlock was sitting on the coffee table directly across from him, looking at him with that strangely patient, fond expression.

John looked around. Mycroft had gotten up from the sofa, had settled himself in Sherlock's chair by the fire. Molly was talking to Lestrade over by the wall. He said something and she laughed, ducked her head. 

"You took Rosie up to bed," John said. "I deduced that." 

"Mm," Sherlock agreed mildly. "Well. Let's have it, then. How did you know?"

"Wasn't me," John said. "Couldn't have been Molly. She was—with the coffee."

"Mrs Hudson?" 

"Nope," John made sure to pop his 'p', leaned forward, put his elbows on his knees. "She's been drinking. Hip. Doesn't like to take the stairs." 

"I see," Sherlock said. 

"Lestrade wouldn't—he's pissed, anyway, but even if he wasn't—he wouldn't go upstairs. Neither would your brother. So that leaves you." Pleased, he leaned forward further, tapped his finger against Sherlock's chest. Let himself fall back against the sofa cushions. He was very warm, very comfortable. 

Sherlock grinned. A real grin, a private grin. It was delightful, that smile. It made John feel warm inside. 

"Not bad, right?" John said. 

"Scintillating," Sherlock said.

"I should do this every year," John said. "Deduce something." 

"Only once a year?"

"Yup. No—not—I mean deliberately." 

"As opposed to accidentally?" Sherlock's voice was teasing, though not unkind.

"I mean that once a year, on Christmas Eve, I'll deduce something. It can be a tradition. It—" The air left John's lungs all at once and he stopped talking, shut his eyes. 

"John?" The amused warmth had dropped out of Sherlock's voice, replaced by concern. 

Tradition. 

Tradition implied consistency. Tradition implied he—it implied he'd still be here, at Baker Street, for the next Christmas and the one after that and the one after that. And oh, Christ, that was a nice thought, it was _comfortable,_ it was the one place in the world where he'd always felt most at home and it couldn't possibly last. 

It had never lasted. He'd looked at Sherlock playing his violin that first Christmas and he'd thought—for the first time in his life he'd thought: _This is forever._

And it hadn't been. It hadn't been forever. Not even close. Sherlock had—there had been blood in the street and his heart in his throat and a terrible long stretch of grey emptiness. 

Tradition. His first Christmas with his daughter he'd spent drunk and angry and alone. Molly had had to intervene. There were no photographs. He hadn't started any bloody _traditions._

He pushed up from the couch, stomach roiling. The smile was gone from Sherlock's face. John always seemed to be wiping the smile from his face. 

"Sorry," he said, embarrassed and sick and unhappy. He touched Sherlock's shoulder, a brief point of contact, an apology. "Sorry." 

And then he went through the door, up the stairs with a heavy step, into his room. 

Rosie was sound asleep in her cot. 

He made sure to close the door quietly.


	19. Father Christmas

*

John sat down on the edge of his bed, put his head in his hands. 

The room tilted, shifted, righted itself. His head ached. He wanted to shout, to punch something, to cry.

He lifted his head, looked at Rosie, asleep in her cot. Sherlock had put her in her warm pyjamas, had covered her with a blanket. She slept deeply, peacefully, her mouth slightly open, one hand flung up over her head. 

The little bedroom was too small for two. He could put his hand out, could touch her cot from his bed. It was fine for now. Would be fine for a little while longer. But it wasn't permanent. It couldn't be permanent. 

He thought of Sherlock, of the way he'd smiled down in the sitting room, his real smile, the one that crinkled his eyes. He could not quite remember what he'd done or said to make Sherlock smile like that. Sherlock had sat close, had given John his full attention. It had been nice. Warm and comfortable. There were people downstairs, good people, people who loved him. People who loved Sherlock. 

Sherlock had smiled. It was distracting, that smile. John loved it, even though it made something in his chest twist and ache. 

He felt sick. Christ, he'd had too much to drink. Far too much. 

The thought of creeping back down the stairs, through the party to use the loo was humiliating. He hunched over, willed his stomach to settle. 

That first Christmas, he'd thought _forever_ and he'd been wrong. 

Leading up to that first Christmas, he'd looked at Sherlock, at his smooth pale skin and his thick dark curls, at his long neck and his lean frame, the way he pursed his lips when he was thinking, the way his eyes snapped to John with a shocking sort of intensity. He'd looked at Sherlock and he'd felt a little electric thrill up his spine, and he'd thought _maybe…_

He'd been wrong about that too, he'd put it on offer there on the stairs one night before that first terrible-wonderful Christmas party. He'd teased Sherlock mercilessly about his ridiculous birthday gift—that bloody professionally bound monograph that took twelve bloody pages to say essentially _I'm your best friend, John, me, only me—_ and he and Sherlock had giggled and made eye contact and he'd said _You only had to say_ and Sherlock had—Sherlock had—

Well. Sherlock hadn't said. He'd let the moment pass, and John had taken the hint, and then those texts had started in again, bloody Irene Adler, and his tentative hopes of _maybe_ had shriveled and died there on the stairs. 

And that had been fine. Because even if _maybe_ was out, he could still have _forever,_ and at the time he hadn't cared all that much about what capacity he had Sherlock in his life so long as he was there. 

And they'd gone shopping together that year, and Christ, that had been a mistake, a disaster of epic proportions. Sherlock had accosted Father Christmas, had quite loudly requested (demanded, really) a nice murder. Children had started crying. The looks they'd received from shocked and furious parents could have killed a weaker man. 

And John had been embarrassed and horrified and so incredibly bloody amused by it all that he hadn't been able to stop giggling long enough to properly shout at Sherlock for causing a scene. 

They'd giggled and giggled and sobered up and then made eye contact and started giggling again, until he was doubled over, until he could barely walk, and it was only the threat of the rapidly approaching security guard that got him moving again. 

He'd wondered, at the time, looking at Sherlock's crinkled-up amused face, so different from his usual expression of blank indifference, whether the man had ever gotten up to wild antics in his school days, if he'd ever _giggled_ like that with anyone before. 

It had looked good on him, that wild good humour, and John had wanted very badly to kiss him, to grab him by the lapels of that ridiculous coat and push him up against the nearest wall and snog him senseless, scandalized shoppers be damned. He'd wanted to pull back and look into his eyes and whisper into his ear: _there is no one else on this earth quite like you._

The thought of that _You only had to say_ that had hung unanswered between them had pulled him up short. Sherlock had said nothing. So in turn he'd said nothing, had instead gone on gasp-laughing and running and keeping pace with Sherlock, because it was better to still have _forever_ than it was to throw it all away on an unlikely _maybe._

And then later, after Sherlock had dashed his brilliant head against the pavement, after the light had gone out of those intensely curious eyes, John had wished he'd done it, wished he hadn't gone on blindly hoping for forever and had instead taken a chance on the moment. 

Because Sherlock had been messy, Sherlock had been all-consuming, Sherlock had been everything to him. And then Sherlock had been gone. 

John pressed his knuckles against his mouth hard, bit back a miserable groan. No sense waking Rosie. Not now, not over this. 

Downstairs, there were voices. Faint strains of Christmas music from Mrs Hudson's radio. 

John lay back on the bed, on top of the covers. His head swam and his stomach churned and he tried very hard not to think of the curve of Sherlock's mouth, the rare sweetness of his smiles, the way he looked when that smile slipped from his face.


	20. Icicles

*

Sherlock sat on the coffee table and looked at the empty space on the sofa where John had been. 

Behind him, Lestrade and Molly were giggling quietly about something. Mrs Hudson was humming along with a tune on the radio. Mycroft took a sip of his drink, the ice clinking against the side of the glass. The fire crackled. 

The sounds had not bothered him before. All at once, they were too much. 

He stood up. 

"I feel the need for a bit of fresh air," Mycroft said behind him, as maddeningly aware of his movements as ever. "Care to join me?" 

"No," Sherlock said. He followed Mycroft into the hall anyway, put on his new-old coat. It draped across his shoulders like an old friend. 

They went down the stairs and out into the cold. The sky was still clear, the stars bright. Only a few hours had passed since he'd stood in the same spot with John. 

Mycroft lit a cigarette. The end glowed in the darkness. He did not offer one to Sherlock. 

The smell of the smoke was quite sharp in the cold air. Sherlock breathed it in, shifted where he stood. Looked up at the buildings all around, at the icicles dangling from eaves, gleaming under the streetlights. 

Years ago, on a similarly cold and clear Christmas Eve, they had stood outside Barts morgue together, blowing smoke up towards the sky. 

_Do you think there's something wrong with us?_ Sherlock had asked, then. 

"Do you ever think about the things we should have done differently?" he asked, now. 

Mycroft took another long drag on his cigarette. He kept his gaze fixed away from Sherlock, staring off somewhere into the middle distance. His silence went on long enough that it seemed he might not answer. 

"Constantly," Mycroft said. 

That long ago Christmas, after they had regarded the corpse of a woman believed to be Irene Adler, Mycroft had handed him a cigarette. They'd spoken to one another, in the clipped, uncomfortable way that had defined much of their adult relationship. 

And just as they'd been about to part, Mycroft had put out his hand, fingers brushing against Sherlock's coat sleeve. 

"A moment," he'd said. 

Sherlock had stopped. Had waited. Mycroft had looked strangely unhappy, his face pinched. 

"Not growing maudlin, are you?" Sherlock had asked, finally. He'd raised his brows, edged his voice into a taunting tone. "Holiday season getting under your skin? Too many sweets? Overdone it with the Christmas pudding? Or perhaps it's—sentiment? Succumbing at last to the ghosts of Christmas Past?" 

"More like the ghosts of Christmas Yet-to-Come," Mycroft had said. 

"Perhaps you ought to reconsider the low tar cigarettes. Doesn't seem they're doing you any favours," Sherlock had said, had turned once again to leave. 

"Sherlock." 

He'd turned back. "Was there something else?" 

"Things are going to end badly." 

"Things often do." Sherlock had paused, studied him. "Oh—did you mean this Christmas in particular? A woman is dead. I imagine it can't get much worse than that. For her, at least." 

Mycroft had frowned. When he spoke again, his voice was soft, contemplative in a way that was oddly unfamiliar. "Were you aware, Sherlock, that intelligence I personally gathered was directly responsible for stopping the last three terrorist attacks on British soil?" 

Sherlock had scoffed. "Were you hoping for knighthood?" 

"Do be serious for once." 

"Then stop speaking in riddles. I detest riddles." 

"I have made sacrifices," Mycroft had said. "Out of duty. For the sake of my country." 

"Mm, for the sake of your waistline, too." 

"Do pay attention, I'd hate for you to miss something of importance because you're too busy being _petty._ "

"Do say something interesting," Sherlock had countered. "I'm afraid I'm rapidly losing patience." 

"I spent this morning selling you out to the highest bidder," Mycroft had said. He'd given a thin smile, had taken another pull on his cigarette. 

Sherlock had breathed in, had studied his brother's face. Nodded. "Well. I hope it was a decent price. Bit embarrassing to be underbid." 

"Oh, it was a very good price," Mycroft had said, his voice grave. "Though I'm not entirely sure it was worth it, in the end." 

"Terrorist attacks. Knighthood. Right." 

"Sherlock—" 

"Three attacks, you say? Why not four?" 

"Moriarty wants you ruined. He wants you dead." 

"Dull. Tell me something I don't already know." 

"I've given him the means to ruin you," Mycroft had said, his tone clipped. "He won't do it right away. He'll want to be _clever_ about it. He'll want to lay a trap." 

"Excellent, I do love those." 

"You're going to let him." 

"Let him ruin me? Hm, no, don't think so. Not my idea of a good time. Might cramp my style." 

"He's going to ruin you, Sherlock," Mycroft had said. "It's inevitable, at this point. But he's not going to kill you. We'll take care of that ourselves." 

Sherlock had stood there for a moment longer, regarding Mycroft with a critical eye. 

"You'll get to be clever," Mycroft had said. He'd smiled, and the smile had been a little pinched, a little sad. "You do love that." 

"Yes," Sherlock had said. "I do." 

And he'd gone off into the night, had gone home to Baker Street. John had been there, John with his questions and his concern and if John knew _any_ of it he'd surely object, he'd want to do things legally, honourably. John still believed in Queen and Country and justice and the due process of law. John believed in things that were good and right and Moriarty believed in none of those things, and none of those things would stop him. 

He'd gone home and he'd shut his door on John, had shut him out. 

His mistake had been in thinking John would remain waiting on the other side. 

_You only had to say._

He'd never found out what it was he'd been meant to say. 

"Well," Sherlock said, after a time. He cleared his throat, looked down at the ground. "I suppose we all have regrets. Even you." 

"Yes," Mycroft said. He dropped his cigarette to the ground, stepped on it. The sole of his shoe scraped across the icy pavement. "Even me."


	21. Longest Night

*

Wood creaked outside John's door, and he sat up, rubbed at his face. 

He could still hear snatches of murmured conversation and faint Christmas music drifting up the stairs. He'd not been out for long, then. Maybe an hour. 

He'd sobered up, mostly. The room wasn't spinning around him any longer, though his stomach roiled and he felt the first heavy throbs of what was sure to develop into a legendary headache. His mouth was dry. He swallowed, grimaced at the lingering taste. 

It was going to be a long night.

Another creak, then silence. He looked at Rosie, who slept peacefully on.

He rubbed at his face again, stood up. Groaned as his stomach took a moment to resettle itself. He went to the door and opened it.

Sherlock stood on the landing. He had a glass of water in his hand.

"Oh," Sherlock said. He blinked.

John rubbed at his eyes, leaned against the doorframe. Looked at the glass. "Is that for me?" 

"Ah—" Sherlock hesitated for a moment, followed John's gaze. There was condensation on the glass, beading up and pooling against his long fingers. "Yes."

He held it out. John took it, drank. The water was cold, soothing against his parched lips. 

"Thank you," John said, when he was done.

"Of course." 

Silence fell between them, stilted, uncomfortable. Sherlock clasped his hands together behind his back, rocked a bit on the balls of his feet. 

"I'll just—" Sherlock said, and pointed to the glass.

"Oh, right," John said. He handed it back. Their fingers brushed. Sherlock's hands were cool, like he'd been outside without gloves. 

Sherlock turned to go. 

"Wait," John said. 

Sherlock stopped. Waited. 

John cleared his throat, looked at the wall, the ceiling, anywhere but at Sherlock's face. He wanted to reach out, to take Sherlock's cold hands in his own, rub them until they were warm. 

After a moment, Sherlock shifted where he stood. "Was there—something—?"

_You only had to say,_ John thought. 

Sherlock had never said. Not then. Not now. There was nothing to say.

"I—" John said.

Sherlock looked at him, stepped closer. He narrowed his eyes. John could almost see his mind working behind that intense gaze, the wheels turning, the dots connecting. 

He was magnetic, like that. His eyes vivid and alive with curiosity, narrowed with single-minded focus. 

He was close, now. Very close. John could feel the subtle heat from his body, could hear his quiet breaths. The noise from downstairs seemed very far away. 

"I'm interviewing for a position at a surgery in Bristol," John said. It was not what he'd meant to say at all.

Sherlock did not step back. 

He might as well have, for the way his face froze. The warm curiosity bled out of him in a rush, leaving him as pale and brittle as he'd been when John had dragged him out of the Thames. 

"Shit," John said, and scrubbed at his face with his hands. "That's not—I was going to talk to you about it. I didn't mean to just—" 

"Bristol," Sherlock said. His voice was devoid of inflection. "Hm. You've chosen well. Frequently named one of the best places to live in the UK, but surely you already knew that." 

"Sherlock—"

"Bit safer than London, surely. Fewer murders. I suppose there are people who consider that sort of thing—um. Good." 

John shut his eyes, shook his head. The headache that had been threatening when he'd opened his eyes now came roaring to life. Dread pooled in his stomach. 

Just—" John said. 

"Excellent. Good. Glad we've had this talk," Sherlock said. His voice had gone alarmingly bright. He smiled, a terrifyingly soulless flash of teeth. Turned and went down the stairs without another word.

John's chest had gone cold. He opened his mouth to call him back. Could not seem to force the words past his lips.


	22. Party Time

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Merry Christmas to those of you who celebrate today, and a happy holiday season to all. <3

*

"Party's over," Sherlock said. 

He went into the sitting room, stabbed at the power button on Mrs Hudson's little radio. In the ensuing shocked silence he stooped down, unplugged the fairy lights that hung over the mantel. 

He stood up, clapped his hands together. 

Mrs Hudson, Lestrade, Molly and Mycroft gaped back at him, a herd of sluggish animals, blinking and surprised and he wanted them _gone_. 

"Well? What are you waiting for? Party's over. Leave." He made a shooing motion with his hands, then darted over to the windows to yank out the plug to the fairy lights that twinkled there as well. 

"Sherlock—" Mrs Hudson started.

"Isn't it past time for your evening soother?" 

"I've already had one, dear, and—" 

"Have another," he said.

"Are you all right?" Molly asked. She worried at her lip, looked as if she wanted to say more.

"Fine," Sherlock said. "Excellent. Holly jolly. Full of Christmas cheer. Now go." 

He stepped forward, plucked the glass of wine from her hands. Went into the kitchen, dumped the contents in the sink. 

"There," he said, looking back. "Booze is gone. Aren't parties over when that happens? Why are you all still here?" 

They were exchanging looks, the lot of them, kindly bewildered worried faces (well, except for Mycroft—there was no bewilderment there, naturally, only a sort of keen-eyed pity), and he couldn't _bear_ it, he did not want kindness or worry or concern, he wanted to be alone with his thoughts. 

"Out," he said again, pointing at the door. "Out!"

Bristol, he thought. Well. It wasn't as if he hadn't known. Bit farther than he'd expected, that was all. He'd thought John would be simply going across London. Again. 

_There are things,_ he thought uselessly. Things he'd wanted to say. Things it had never been appropriate to say. Things it never would be appropriate to say. 

His hands shook. He felt colder than he had on the riverbank. 

He shouldn't be reacting like this. He'd _known._ He'd already deduced it. He'd just missed some of the details. That was—it was irritating, of course, but it wasn't so unusual. There was always something. 

He tucked himself into his chair, stared at the fire. 

His first Christmas back, after—after his time away—he had spent with John and Mary. He'd been home for just over a month, was still getting reacquainted with places he'd once known intimately, and he'd had no intention of even observing Christmas that year, let alone entertaining guests. 

And yet they'd shown up, the pair of them in hideous Christmas jumpers, Mary carrying a loaf of fresh-baked bread. Her own recipe. And it had been uneasy and awkward at first, in his time away he'd forgotten how to simply _be_ with John, and his little jokes fell flat and periodically John would look at him with his nostrils flaring and something indefinable on his face. 

Mary had filled the silence between them with chatter and good cheer and a surprisingly sharp wit, and John had warmed, and Sherlock had seen some of the stiff sorrow drop from his face in the firelight, had looked across the room and seen John looking back at him and _smiling_ and had thought: _Oh, all right. I can do this._

And he had, for a time. He had, and it had been good. Mostly. A few bumps in the road, here and there. Some parts had hurt more than others. 

He'd been grateful to Mary. He did not think that John had ever really understood that. 

Sherlock had had certain expectations for his return home. Naïve, foolish expectations, certainly, he knew that now. 

He'd expected the world to have paused in his absence, and instead it had kept on turning. There had been no room for him, not anymore, but Mary had _made room._ Everything that came after, and oh, there had been _a lot_ that had come after, things he might not have forgiven (certainly would not have forgiven) under different circumstances had it not been for the fact that Mary had once looked at him under streetlamps—blood on his face and red-rimmed heartbreak in his eyes—and had offered him a kind smile, had said _I'll talk him round._

Sherlock looked away from the fire. The room had gone dark and still around him. The guests were gone. He had not heard them leave. 

He breathed out through his nose, shifted where he sat. Looked across at John's empty chair. 

Then he stood up, walked down the hall towards his bedroom. Stopped. 

John was sitting at the kitchen table, his head in his hands. He turned to look at Sherlock as he came through the door. 

Sherlock stared. He did not know what to do with his hands. He clasped them behind his back. 

John said nothing, held his gaze. The silence between them seemed very loud. 

After a moment, Sherlock took a tentative step forward. He sat down at the table, facing John. He was conscious of everything—the squeak of the chair on the lino, the slow drip from the faucet pattering into the sink. The sound of his own breathing. 

"I could do with a cuppa," John said, after a long while. 

Sherlock studied his face for a moment, then nodded in wordless assent. 

John stood up, went to the kettle.

Sherlock shut his eyes and listened to the rustle of John's clothing, the sound of his feet on the uneven floor, the creak of cabinet doors, the clink of spoons. Familiar sounds. Comfortable sounds. The sounds of home.


	23. Did You Bring Your Gun?

*

John poured hot water into mugs with a shaking hand. He set the kettle back down on the counter. Stood with his hands braced, staring down, breathing. 

Behind him, Sherlock was silent. 

John's hand shook. 

He flattened his palm against the counter, pressed down hard, tried to quell the tremor. 

He'd spent his life seeking out professions, relationships, situations where his faults would be seen as strengths.

He'd hefted a rifle and walked onto a battlefield without a hitch in his step. He—with a somewhat alarming frequency—flung himself into dangerous situations alongside Sherlock. He'd aimed his handgun more than once, had fired true. He'd gone over the railing on the Jubilee Bridge and into the Thames on an icy night without hesitation. 

_Brave bastard,_ Lestrade had called him on the riverbank. He'd been out of breath from running, half-giddy with relief that they were alive. He'd slapped John on the back, laughing, shaking his head. _Brave bastard._

John had never been brave. 

He had medals that said otherwise. He had army mates, brothers-in-arms, who would _insist_ otherwise. 

They were wrong. 

He'd leap into the line of fire without hesitation, but two years ago the thought of a Christmas gathering with his then-estranged wife had sent him scrambling for excuses, for diversions. And Sherlock had known it, Christ, he'd known it, he'd always known everything worth knowing about John right from the start, and he'd waited until the morning they were set to leave and he'd leaned in and murmured _Bring your gun._ And just like that his spine had snapped to attention, his heart had sped up even as his thoughts had settled and he'd fallen into line and everything from that point had been easy. 

Well. Easy right up until it had all gone to hell. 

John was not quite sure what, exactly, that said about him, but he was quite sure the final answer was not _brave._

He'd cheated on his wife rather than admit he felt trapped and miserable behind the façade of the life they'd built ( _You were bored out of your skull living in a townhouse in a quiet part of London—_ yes, fine, Mary, he'd admit it now, he had been). He'd turned Sherlock away because it had been easier to be angry than to take comfort in their shared grief. His subconscious still occasionally infected his dreams with images of Sherlock sprawled limp and bloody on the hard ground, and yet he'd used his own fists to put him there again. 

He'd thrown himself into the river after Sherlock without hesitation, but one lone, brilliant smile delivered from a hospital bed had been enough to make him turn tail. 

He fished the teabags out of the water, threw them away. Carried the steaming mugs over to the kitchen table, set them down. Slid one across to Sherlock. 

Sherlock accepted it wordlessly, long fingers curling around the warm ceramic. 

"You sent everyone home," John said. His voice seemed startlingly loud in the midst of all that silence. 

Sherlock looked up, blinked. Whatever he'd expected John to say, that had not been it. 

"They'd overstayed their welcome," Sherlock said. The corner of his mouth tried to twitch up into a tentative smile and did not quite make it. "It's past midnight. Really, John, think of the neighbors." 

"There's something I never thought I'd hear you say," John said. He took a sip of his tea, grimaced. Too hot. He set it back down on the table, traced one finger over an old scrape in the wood. 

"There are a lot of things you've never heard me say," Sherlock said, and he looked down, swallowed. His Adam's apple bobbed up and down. 

"Yeah," John said, tired and defeated and feeling anything but brave. "Me too."


	24. Holy Night

*

"I'm sorry," John said. His voice was low, a little rough. He had his left hand pressed flat against the kitchen table, his right curled around his mug. 

Sherlock stared at him for a long moment, noted the tremble in his hand that he was working so very hard to hide. 

"Why?" he asked, curious. 

John gaped at him for a moment. His hand forgot to tremble.

"For—" John said, and he swallowed, tipped his head back. "For everything." 

"'Everything' encompasses quite a large range," Sherlock said. He raised his brows, leaned back in his chair. "There's no need to be sorry for everything." 

John looked off-balance, uncertain, unhappy. "I—" he said.

Sherlock looked back down at his tea. The warm ceramic felt good against his fingers. 

"I'd already deduced it," he said. 

John's gaze snapped to his. "What?"

"That you were planning on—" Sherlock hesitated, waved his hand vaguely in the air. "Moving on."

"I'm not—" John frowned, looked down at the table again. His fingers traced over the faint scars in the wood. "It's just an interview. I've not made any decisions." 

Sherlock took his hands away from the mug, folded them in front of him on the table instead.

"Sarah called. Do you remember Sarah?" 

Sherlock remembered Sarah. He shifted in his seat, said nothing. 

"Sarah Sawyer," John said. "Well. Not Sawyer any more, but that's not—" he looked up, caught Sherlock's eye, shook his head. "Never mind. Not important."

"The phone call," Sherlock prompted, when it seemed that John would not continue. 

"Right," John said. He took another sip of his tea, slid his left hand off the table to curl against his leg. He seemed to think that did a fair job of disguising the tremor. 

He was wrong, of course, but Sherlock opted not to point it out. 

"She called just as I was leaving work," John said, and it all clicked into place—John's late return, his distracted demeanor, his disinterest in the case. "Told me about a practice she and her husband had started out in Bristol. They're looking to add a third. My name came up." 

Sherlock nodded slowly. "Curious." 

"Why?" 

"How impressed could she really be with your medical skills?" 

John bristled, his left hand coming up to smack against the tabletop. No more tremor. 

"I'm a bloody good doctor!"

"I know," Sherlock said, and he smiled. "I wasn't casting aspersions on your skills, merely pointing out that in the brief time you worked with—" he brought his hands up to trace irritated finger quotes in the air between them, "—'Sarah Sawyer,' you were kidnapped, she was kidnapped, you fell asleep at your desk on no fewer than three separate occasions, you received two verbal and one written warning for late arrival and, most memorably, you once dropped your stethoscope on a patient's foot and ran out the door mid-examination to assist me with chasing down an art thief." 

John stared at him. His mouth worked soundlessly. 

"Wonder how many people she called," Sherlock said, and he knew it was the wrong thing to say even as his mouth continued shaping the words. "Before she got to you." 

"Christ," John said, and he stood up in a furious rush. The chair legs shrieked in protest against the lino. 

Sherlock sat and watched him go. He looked down at his mug, at his own folded hands. There was a lump in his throat, and he found it suddenly rather difficult to draw breath. 

"You're angry." 

Sherlock's head snapped up. John stood in the doorway. He was gripping the doorframe with both hands, shoulders squared, breathing hard.

Sherlock had not heard him come back. 

He swallowed, met John's gaze.

John breathed out, hard, and some of the fight seemed to go out of him. Even his hair seemed to wilt, fine strands of silver gold slipping over his brow. 

Sherlock wanted to smooth those strands back, wanted to take John's face in his hands and whisper nonsense until he smiled again. He also quite wanted to throw something, wanted to hear the satisfying crash of ceramic against the wall. He wanted to shout, he wanted to fling himself onto the sofa and stare at the worn leather cushions until John went away. He wanted to think of the cruelest, most cutting thing he could possibly say in order to ensure that John _stayed_ gone. 

He sucked in a breath of air, horrified at the shaky, wet sound of it. 

"Shit," John said. He took a hesitant step forward, hand clenching and unclenching. "Shit—Sherlock—I'm—" 

And then that hand was on Sherlock's shoulder, warm and strong, and it lingered for a moment before sliding across his back, fingers spread wide, a comforting caress.

Sherlock wanted very badly to melt into the sensation. He did not move. 

"Sorry," John said. "Shit. I'm sorry. I've been a tit. I shouldn't have—at the hospital—I shouldn't have left like that—" 

"Bit rude," Sherlock agreed. 

"Of course you're angry." 

"I'm not—" Sherlock paused. Considered. "Oh." 

Well. That explained the desire to throw things and shout.

John had not moved away, his hand still spread warm and solid on Sherlock's back. It moved in slow circles, soothing. 

They stayed that way for some time, silence between them. Sherlock breathed, looked down at the table. John's hand circled, circled, circled, rubbed and smoothed over the wrinkles in his shirt. There was an uncertain quality to John's breaths, and Sherlock wondered what expression he'd find if he turned around to look at his face. 

He thought, perhaps, it might be the one that haunted him from time to time. The one where John looked on the verge of saying something momentous. 

"When we were kids, Harry and I used to try to stay up all night on Christmas Eve," John said. 

Sherlock blinked. 

"Thought we'd catch a glimpse of Father Christmas," John said, and laughed, a sad little chuckle. "We'd wait until our parents were asleep, and then we'd creep out into the sitting room to wait."

John's hand had stopped rubbing. He had not lifted it away.

"And?" Sherlock prompted, finally. 

"We never quite made it," John said. "Always fell asleep. I'd wake up covered in a blanket, gifts already waiting under the tree." 

"Ah," Sherlock said. He hesitated. This was—friends shared stories. They exchanged personal information, history, _anecdotes._ John was likely expecting some form of reciprocation. Perhaps intended to break the ice. 

He thought, unwittingly, of his own feet slipping in the icy slush on the Jubilee Bridge, of the railing against his back dropping away into emptiness, of the ice and roaring water rushing up to claim him. Shivered. 

"I wrote a detailed monograph examining the logical inconsistencies of the Father Christmas myth, and came to a definitive and sound conclusion that he did not—and _could not—_ exist."

"Mm, of course you did," John said. "And how old were you, then?" 

"Three." 

"Sounds about right," John said. He breathed out an amused little huff of air. Sherlock wanted to pull that sound into his own lungs, hold it there forever. 

"They didn't even try, with Eurus," Sherlock said. He frowned, unsure why the thought had occurred. 

John's hand twitched, resumed its unconscious circling on his back. 

"Father Christmas," he clarified. "Seemed a waste of time." 

He thought of his strange, silent, joyless little sister—the girl he still could only recall in hazy snatches of memory. His parents had assumed she'd find the whole Father Christmas thing unbearably tedious, embarrassing, idiotic. And they'd likely been right. And yet—perhaps there had still been joy to be had in the exploration, in the disproving. Perhaps they'd done everything wrong, all of them, right from the start. 

Too late to change things now, of course. Too late for so many things. 

"Well, you might have your monographs and your analyses," John said. "But I tend to rely on what my eyes tell me. So. What do you say?" 

Sherlock shifted where he sat, twisted to look John in the eye. "What are you talking about?" 

"I think I'm going to sit up and wait for Father Christmas." John cleared his throat, looked down for a moment before lifting his head again. There was a tense half-smile on his face. "Wait with me?" 

"Don't be—" Sherlock stopped himself, looked at John. "All right." 

John turned, went out into the sitting room. He bent to switch Mrs Hudson's little radio back on, the volume turned down low. The soft strains of _O Holy Night_ filled the room. It was not entirely unpleasant.

Sherlock drifted after him, feeling half-caught in a dream. He eyed his chair, but instead joined John on the sofa, their knees bumping. He leaned his head back, breathed. 

"Don't fall asleep," John said, and there was a smile in his voice. 

Sherlock smiled back, though his eyes had already drifted shut.


	25. I Feel the Same

*

When Sherlock woke, the room was aglow with warm early morning light, the fairy lights once again plugged in and twinkling on the mantel and windows. 

He shifted on the sofa. A blanket tickled under his chin, and he frowned down at it. Someone had covered him in the night. 

John's voice. A soft, low murmuring. Quiet laughter. Rosie's happy babble. Crinkling paper. The smell of coffee rich in the air. 

He sat up.

John was sitting cross-legged on the floor next to Rosie, who was carefully and determinedly inspecting several brightly wrapped boxes. He glanced up and smiled, an awkward, crooked grin. 

"Another year unsuccessful," John said. He reached over, tickled Rosie lightly on the side. She giggled, the sound high-pitched and joyful. "Fell asleep. Missed Father Christmas." He lowered his voice, spoke directly to her. "All of this was here when I woke up." 

Sherlock's mouth twitched, and he struggled to arrange his face into something a little less obviously, devastatingly fond. 

"There's coffee," John said, pointing vaguely towards the kitchen. 

Sherlock stood, stretched, let the blanket fall away back onto the sofa. His neck was stiff, his shoulders sore. He wondered how long John had stayed on the sofa by his side, if he'd nodded off too, at what point he'd stirred and made his way upstairs. 

There would be clues, of course. John was easy to read in that regard—Sherlock had never had difficulty spotting a bad night's sleep on him.

He found himself quite unwilling to look. 

Instead he let his mind carefully weave a possibility, a gossamer thread of a scenario that might have happened, a fragile moment lost in time where John, unguarded and sleepy, perhaps let himself drift off there on the sofa. Where he perhaps tipped ever so slightly to his left so that his head bumped up against Sherlock's shoulder, so that his steady breaths puffed warm and humid against Sherlock's neck.

It could have happened. It might have. He had no evidence to the contrary. 

He smiled down into his coffee. It was a foolish smile, and one he did not indulge for long lest he be caught out. 

He went back into the sitting room. 

The morning stretched out unbroken before them, time slipping along slow as treacle. Rosie had torn into most, if not all, of her gifts, had predictably found herself equally as enamored of the brightly coloured paper and ribbons as she was of the what they'd contained. 

Sherlock did not stray far from the sofa as the hours melted away. He marveled at himself, a bit, for that. On balance, it was not terribly interesting to watch a human in the early stages of childhood development discover the confounding joys of pressing adhesive tape against its skin and then peeling it away, and yet—

And yet, Rosie's stupefied reaction to tangling a bit of tape around her fingers, and then her immediate and vocal interest in repeating the experiment was, strangely, captivating. 

John looked up at him, the side of his face warmed by late morning sunlight, and he smiled. There was something of the battlefield in that smile, a half-stunned acknowledgement that, in spite of all evidence to the contrary, they had survived the night. 

"You gave Rosie a gift," John said, later, when he'd stood up from the ground with his knees popping and a grimace on his face. He came over to the sofa, dropped down next to Sherlock with an exhausted little huff of breath. 

Sherlock raised his brows. "Of course. Christmas morning is important to children." 

John smiled again, a sort of bright-eyed, wondering smile, and Sherlock shut his eyes and breathed and thought _It's Christmas_ and then he thought _It actually is Christmas_ and it was dangerous to think that way, far too dangerous, and so he opened his eyes. 

John was close. His expression had changed. He looked, once more, like he had something he wanted to say, something he was fighting to either hold in or blurt out. 

How many years, Sherlock wondered. How many years had he balanced on that knife's edge? 

"It wasn't even a terrible gift," John said, with a nervous little laugh that said _deflection,_ he'd redirected his attention back to Rosie because it was safe, it was easy, a classic retreat. "No dangerous chemicals. No knives. No—no professionally bound book pointing out why all of the children in her play group are actually secret members of a—a—toddler murder club." 

"Oh, do they have those?" 

John laughed again, more genuine this time, swatted at his shoulder. 

On the floor, Rosie was sprawled amidst the detritus of Christmas. She'd exhausted herself amongst the paper and toys, and had fallen asleep in a shaft of sunlight without ever settling on any one thing to play with. 

Sherlock's gift lay on the ground just to her right. A jigsaw puzzle. Age-appropriate, with thick, brightly painted wooden pieces that came together to form a rudimentary map of the solar system. An excellent developmental tool for improving hand-eye coordination and memory. And there had, of course, been the matter of the solar system itself, which perhaps John did not recall—

"Earth goes round the sun," John said, stretching out his leg to toe at the box. "Got that, now?" 

"Mm," Sherlock shrugged. "Irrelevant." 

"It's really not." 

"So you say." 

"Thank you," John said, shifting slightly to face him. His voice had gone serious again, rather unexpectedly. He met Sherlock's gaze, held it, nodded once. 

Sherlock nodded back, a bit bewildered. Perhaps the deflection had merely been a delay. 

"Sherlock," John said, and at the tone of his voice the world tilted, the air rushed out of Sherlock's lungs and the comfortable domestic sounds receded to a dull roar. 

John's face was serious, earnest, worried and sad and conflicted, and Sherlock absolutely did not want to hear what he had to say in that voice, with that face.

"You know it's—it's just an interview. Nothing's set in stone. I just—" 

"Rosie," Sherlock said, and nodded. "Of course." 

"Just—" John took a breath, blew it out, a frustrated sound.

Sherlock held still, watched, waited. 

"She's going to need—" John said. "Sherlock. You know that—it—"

Sherlock remained very still.

"It wouldn't change—" John stopped. "Well, no, of course it would. But. Even if I—even if we did—go. You're still—you're still my best friend, Sherlock. That's not going to change." 

There, the words he'd dreaded and anticipated. The calm quiet comfortable end, the amicable parting. Meaningless words from those too polite to say goodbye. 

"Of course," Sherlock said. His voice was quite steady. "I feel the same."


	26. Cleaning Up

*

A woman had dropped a large cup of coffee on the platform, and the waiting crowd had parted like the sea around the mess to avoid standing in it. 

John shifted where he stood, carefully rearranged Rosie against his chest so he could look at his watch.

The morning had been an unmitigated disaster.

Rosie had been uncharacteristically fussy over breakfast, had spilled juice down her front and necessitated a quick bath and a change of clothes. Then she'd spit up on her second shirt, necessitating another hasty cleaning and change. 

He'd missed his train.

The streets had been clogged with traffic that seemed to originate from a minor fender bender, and he'd arrived at Paddington Station just in time to see his second train depart. 

He had a half hour wait for the next one, and so he stood watching with an exhausted detachment as a caretaker arrived with a squeaky-wheeled cart and commenced mopping up the spill. 

He'd texted Sarah to let her know he was running late, and though her response was both immediate and sympathetic, he could not help but think of Sherlock's unflinching assessment of his past performance. 

_Fell asleep at your desk on no fewer than three separate occasions,_ Sherlock had said. _Received two verbal and one written warning for late arrival._ His voice had been sharp, surprisingly harsh, even for him. He'd been angry. He hadn't seemed to realize it. 

That bewildered, stunned anger had thrown a bucket of cold water on John's own half-inebriated irritation. He hadn't wanted them to shout at each other. He hadn't wanted to upset Sherlock, or to hurt him, and yet that was exactly what he'd done. What he kept doing, over and over. 

He _should_ move out, he thought. They were tripping over each other, he and Sherlock. Too much time had gone by. Too many things had changed. Sherlock kept on trying to make room for him, because that was—that was apparently what Sherlock _did._ But there was no room to be made. Not for John, not anymore. He didn't fit. 

The caretaker finished mopping up the floor. He left the way he had come, moving at an unhurried pace, pushing his cart. John watched him go. Within a few moments, the rippling crowd of people on the platform filled in the space he'd left behind. 

On Christmas day, Sherlock had cleaned up Rosie's explosion of wrapping paper, had stacked her gifts neatly next to the coffee table. He'd sat in the kitchen studying twice-frozen blood samples that he'd claimed were pertinent to a case he'd been following, and when he was done he'd cleaned up after himself, had put away his slides, had wiped down the table. 

John had watched him, tried to see whatever it was that Sherlock saw when he looked at people. He looked for traces of buried resentment, suppressed anger, disdain. He saw nothing. Sherlock went about his tasks and kept things neat and he did it without complaint and it _made no sense._

The train pulled in, lumbering and hissing and squealing as it came to a stop. John boarded, settled into his seat. Rosie was calm and curious in her seat next to him, staring wide-eyed at her surroundings. She had her fingers in her mouth. 

He looked down at his phone as the train began to move. No new messages. 

The train chugged along. He watched the scenery fly by with a sort of halfhearted attention, pointing out things of interest to Rosie whenever she seemed on the verge of fussing. 

Sunlight glinted off of the window, warming his face, and he thought of the Christmas morning sun, breaking tentatively over the horizon, brightening the cosy cluttered sitting room and coaxing him awake. He had slumped over into Sherlock at some point in the night, his head nestled atop a bony shoulder, his nose buried in the warm soft skin of Sherlock's neck. 

It had been so very quiet, so still. He'd scarcely dared to breathe, lest he shatter the unexpected peace of the moment. Sherlock's head was tipped back against the couch cushions, his mouth partly open, his breaths deep, even. The stress and pain and sorrow of the last year and a half had seemed to melt off of his face in sleep, leaving him looking unguarded and heartbreakingly young. 

_Forever,_ he'd thought, there on the sofa. _I could do this forever._

And then he'd had to extricate himself, carefully, delicately, because his heart rate had spiked and his hand had clenched and he'd thought of all the ways that _forever_ could go wrong. Had already gone wrong. 

He'd stood up, and Sherlock had listed over onto his side with a soft little sound, and John had stood looking down at him for a moment, already missing his warmth and wishing wishing wishing that he could have this, somehow, that he could wave his hand and remake them into different people entirely, the kinds of people who could do the things he wanted to do. 

He'd pulled the blanket down off the back of the sofa and tucked it around Sherlock, who mumbled and tugged it closer. 

And then he'd gone off in search of some paracetamol and a hot shower and coffee, he'd plugged in the fairy lights and brought out the gifts, he'd fetched Rosie and brought her downstairs and watched her face light up with shocked joy. 

It had been a good Christmas, all things considered. A few bumps in the road. More than a few, he supposed. But still. A marked improvement from the previous two years. 

The rest of the week had passed slowly, strangely. 

Sherlock solved a handful of cases over Twitter. They met with a client distraught over an ill-suited Christmas gift her husband had purchased, and—well—if he was being honest, he supposed there was no _good_ way to break the news that one's spouse was having an affair and had mixed up the gifts intended for his wife and paramour, but Sherlock had done it in a way that was startlingly compassionate, regardless. 

They went out to look at crime scenes ("Your coat," he'd said, wonderingly, watching Sherlock slip into it at the foot of the stairs, and Sherlock had rolled his eyes and grumbled something about meddling siblings, but there had been no real venom in his voice), they ate dinner and argued about television choices. It was almost normal. 

Almost.

There had been something strangely reserved about Sherlock. As if he were expending a great deal of effort to hold himself firmly in check. As if there were things he wanted to say, things he was biting back. 

John had half expected Sherlock to come up with some astoundingly elaborate reason to force him to miss his interview, but he'd done nothing of the sort. He'd sat at the kitchen table with his microscope and had wished John a polite _Good luck._

"What are you working on?" John had asked, hesitating, wanting to go ahead and get their inevitable row over why he couldn't just ditch his plans based on Sherlock's whims over with. 

"Chemical analysis on a man recently killed at a holiday party," Sherlock had said. He'd glanced up, a meaningful glance, and his lip had twitched. "Poison." 

John had smiled in spite of himself, had bounced Rosie in his arms. "Yes, well, you did warn us." 

And Sherlock had smiled back, and had returned his attention to his microscope, and that had been that. He'd not attempted any delays, any distractions.

Rosie was starting to fuss by the time he departed the train in Bristol, and she seemed ready to work herself up into a proper tantrum by the time they got outside into the frigid winter air. 

He looked down at his phone, swore when he saw several missed calls from Sarah. He moved off to the side, out of the way, and listened to his voicemail. 

"So sorry—" she said. One of her patients had had an emergency. They'd need to reschedule. 

Rosie began to shriek, and he pulled the phone away from his ear, bounced her in his arms, tried to soothe her.

He lifted the phone back to his ear. 

"I've booked you a room for the night," Sarah said. "I know it's not ideal, but I know you've traveled a long way. I've cleared my morning appointments, so we can chat then, and I'll have you back on the train and home in time for any big New Year's Eve plans, I promise." 

"Shit," John said, slipping his phone back into his pocket. He looked at Rosie, and she looked back at him with serious, red-rimmed eyes. "This whole thing has been a bit of a disaster, yeah?" 

She blinked at him, nodded. Put her fingers back in her mouth. 

He looked around at the crowd of unfamiliar people in an unfamiliar city. All at once, Baker Street, and Sherlock, seemed terribly far away.


	27. Thank God That's Over

*

The waiting area was clean, nicely furnished and well lit. 

John paused by the reception desk, looked around. Nodded. 

It was nice. Quite nice. He'd expect nothing less, really. Sarah had always run a tight ship. 

He kept his right hand on the handle to Rosie's little pushchair, rocked it back and forth in a gentle motion. For the time being, Rosie seemed content, occasionally humming a little tune to herself. She smiled at the patients and staff that passed by. Most smiled back. 

He'd been in a foul mood by the time he'd reached the hotel Sarah had arranged for him the night before. He'd been cold, hungry, frustrated—and Rosie had been kicking and squirming and screaming her little lungs out. 

The hotel staff had provided him with a little foldaway cot. He'd caught their dubious expressions as Rosie continued to shriek and fuss and wail, and he'd been flustered, embarrassed, had promised she'd settle down. 

She had not. 

He'd held her and rocked her and carried her around the room, tried to reason with her, tried to distract her, tried singing and goofy faces and turning up the telly. 

Nothing had worked. 

"John," Sarah said, and he turned, offered her a smile as she came through the hallway from the back offices. She grasped his hand, shook it firmly. 

She looked well, he thought. It had been a very long time since he'd last seen her. 

"This is nice," he said, looking around again. "Very nice. Yep." 

"We're a bit short-staffed at the moment," she said. "That's why we're in a bit of a rush to get this opening filled. How are you liking Bristol?"

He smiled again, shrugged. "It's been lovely. Yeah. Very nice." 

Rosie had screamed and screamed and screamed and his pacing and rocking and soothing had grown more desperate, more erratic. Sweat had run down the back of his neck, cooling uncomfortably under the collar of his shirt. 

His _only_ shirt, as he had not bothered to pack a change of clothes for what he'd assumed to be a day trip. 

He'd set Rosie down in the little cot, had stripped down to his vest, carefully hung his shirt over the bathroom door. His phone had chirped with an incoming text. 

"This must be little Rosamund," Sarah said, bending down to smile at Rosie. Rosie, ever delighted to be the center of attention, beamed back. 

"She's lovely," Sarah said. "They're so great at this age. Bit of a handful, but—" she laughed, shook her head, stood up. "She's got your smile." 

John glanced down at his daughter, at her wide unfettered grin, and wondered when, if ever, he'd smiled like that in his life. 

The text had been from Sherlock. He'd sent photo of a corpse and a stiffly-worded question on a minor medical detail. John was fairly sure that he'd already known the answer, but had dutifully provided his opinion. 

Sherlock had stopped responding, after a time, and John assumed he'd gone off in pursuit of the next lead. But then, after another ten minutes of trying (and failing) to soothe an angry, squalling toddler, his phone had chirped again. 

_How is Bristol? SH_

John had shifted Rosie on his hip, texted back one-handed. _Bit loud at the moment._

There had been no response. John could not help but picture Sherlock's bewildered face, his furrowed brow, his thunderous frown. 

_Rosie won't stop screaming. Might get us booted from the hotel._

_Teething. SH_

_Still going to get us booted from the hotel._

There had been a long stretch of silence, and then his phone had begun to ring. Sherlock had dialed him on Facetime. 

Sherlock's face had filled the screen, slightly distorted. 

"Turn up the volume," he'd said, and though quite startled, John hastened to comply. 

And then the rich, familiar sound of Sherlock's violin had filled the air, clear and lovely and comforting in spite of the tinny phone speaker. 

And Rosie had calmed. Her wailing had tapered off into miserable whimpers, then to sniffling, and then finally, blessedly, silence. Her eyes had drifted closed. She'd breathed steadily against John's chest, and he'd continued to walk slow circles around the room, cradling the back of her head with his hand, blinking his eyes hard against an unexpected sting, his heart aching. 

As the music had tapered off, he'd lifted his phone up, had squinted at the screen as Sherlock picked it back up from the desk where he'd set it. Once more his face filled the screen. 

"Thank you," John had said, his voice very quiet. 

Sherlock had nodded. His lips pressed in an uncertain, tentative smile. "Of course." He paused, and John cursed the video's low resolution, because he was not quite able to glean anything from Sherlock's eyes. "Good night, John. And—good luck. With your interview." 

He'd disconnected the call before John could reply. The screen had gone dark. 

John had held onto his phone for a long time, after, as he'd continued to walk small circles around the room with Rosie heavy and sleepy in his arms. 

"Sher!" Rosie squealed, and John jolted, snapped his head up to follow her gaze. 

There was a man at the desk, bending slightly to speak with the receptionist. He was tall. Thick dark hair, long coat. Not Sherlock. 

John sighed, bent down to unbuckle her from the pushchair. He hoisted her up into his arms, settled her on his hip. 

"No, love," he murmured into Rosie's soft hair, bouncing her gently. "Sherlock's back in London. You'll see him later." 

The man turned around, revealing his unfamiliar face, and Rosie recoiled, shrinking back against John's chest. 

John bounced her again, kissed the top of her head. Looked up to see Sarah watching him. Her arms were folded, and a smile curved at the edge of her mouth. 

"And how _is_ Sherlock?" she asked. 

He laughed, a little forced, and looked down. "Oh. Well. You know." 

She went on smiling. There were questions in her eyes. 

"Would he be coming with you?" she asked, finally. 

"Sherlock?" John cleared his throat, looked up at the ceiling. Even the ceiling tiles were neat. No cobwebs. No dust. "No. No. God no. He's quite happy in London." 

"Oh, good," she said, and she winked, gave a little laugh. "So we won't have to compete with him for your time."

"No," John said. His face felt warm. "No, I'd be—um. Work would be my priority, yeah. And Rosie, of course." 

"Of course," Sarah said. She smiled at Rosie. "Same with my girls, of course." 

"Right, yeah," John said. He shifted where he stood. All of the awkward smiling had begun to make his face hurt. 

"Raj and I met at work," she said. "Did I mention that? He's actually—well—he's the person we'd hired to replace you. Funny how life works out sometimes, isn't it?" 

"Sure is." 

"He's just finishing up with a patient," she said. "Let me go see if he's done. Then we'll give you a tour, buy you some breakfast and have you on your way." 

She patted him on the arm, disappeared back down the hall.

John breathed out, shifted Rosie against his hip.

He did not particularly want to meet Sarah's lovely husband Raj. He did not particularly want to see photos of their lovely children. And he did not particularly want to tour the lovely surgery they ran together, did not want to look into the clean well-equipped examination rooms, did not want to sit down at a desk in an empty office and imagine himself there forever. 

What he wanted was—

What he wanted was impractical.

But oh, Christ, how he wanted it. 

Still, it was best to see this through. He'd spent almost the entire first year of Rosie's life being terribly selfish. He needed to think of her, now. Her needs. If he could manage to make this work, he owed it to his daughter to try. 

He bent to resettle Rosie into her pushchair. Sat down in one of the comfortable waiting room chairs, looked up at the clock on the wall. Watched the minutes tick by. 

He looked down at his phone, sighed. Started to tap out a text message, stopped. Looked up at the ceiling. Counted to ten. Reopened the message, started again. 

_How's the poisoning case?_

He set the phone down on his leg, wondered if Sherlock would even bother responding. The screen lit up almost immediately. 

_Dull. It was the housekeeper. SH_

John felt the corner of his mouth tug up into a reluctant smile. Before he could type a response, another message came through. 

_Perhaps we should endeavor to stay in Mrs Hudson's good graces. SH_

John barked out a laugh, pressed the back of his hand against his mouth.

_Sherlock, if she were going to poison us, I think she'd have done it a long time ago._  
_Besides, she's not our housekeeper._

_Perhaps she was just waiting for the right moment. SH_

John laughed, looked away, wanting, suddenly, to catch someone's eye, to share a grin, to giggle together. 

_No such thing as the right moment,_ he typed. _Only missed opportunities._

He bit his lip as he hit send, waited. 

No response came. 

He glanced up at the reception desk. Sarah had still not returned from the offices she'd disappeared into. 

He looked back down at his phone. Nothing. 

He wiped a sweaty palm against his jeans. Typed. 

_Take Rosie's dress for example._

The response was immediate. 

_Example of what? SH_

_Missed opportunity._  
_Bought her that dress for Christmas photos._  
_Never even got a chance to take any._

No response. 

John breathed out a frustrated breath, looked away. That wasn't Sherlock's fault. Of course he had no idea what to say. What was anyone supposed to say to that? 

He'd missed Rosie's first Christmas. She'd screamed and cried and wailed for him, for Mary, for _anyone,_ and he'd wandered around with a drink in his hand and his chest a twisting, bubbling, bottomless black pit of resentment and rage. Molly had come and had pursed her lips, had wrapped his daughter up warm and taken her from the house and he'd let her go without a fight, had been glad for the silence. 

He'd wanted—he'd just wanted—

He'd wanted to try again. He'd wanted to do better. Years from now, when Rosie was older, surely she'd wonder about it. The lack of baby pictures, the way her first (and now second, oh God, he really was fucking _terrible_ at this) Christmas had not warranted cheesy photos and saccharine smiles and cheap plastic baubles commending BABY'S FIRST CHRISTMAS. 

He'd wanted to do better, and instead he'd—

The phone screen lit up. Annoyed, he swiped at it, looked at the message Sherlock had sent him. 

It was photo attachment. 

Rosie, in her red Christmas dress. She was settled comfortably in Sherlock's chair, the crushed red velvet of her skirt spread around her. The skull clasped in her small hands, Santa hat slipping to the side. A radiant grin on her face, her eyes bright. Behind her, slightly out of focus, the mantel with its twines of garland and soft glow of fairy lights. 

The breath rushed out of him. He felt like he'd been kicked in the chest. 

He doubled over in his chair, his face flushing up hot, blood roaring in his ears, his vision blurring, his eyes stinging. 

Sherlock. Sherlock had—

He thought again of Sherlock, who had calmly and quietly rearranged his life to fit John back into it. Sherlock, who cleaned up after himself, who no longer left hidden hazards lurking in the corners of their flat, who no longer openly courted biochemical disaster, no longer left bits of human remains strewn around their kitchen table. 

_You only had to say, you know,_ he'd told Sherlock, once. 

He'd spent years thinking that Sherlock had never said anything in return. 

"Oh my God," he said, and he pressed his hand against his mouth. He was shaking. 

He looked up. Sarah was coming through the doorway, her husband behind her. They were both smiling. Sarah's smile dropped as she saw his face. 

"John? Are you all right?" 

"Yes," he said, and he stood up. "Sarah, it was lovely to see you again. Raj—" he nodded, smiled. "Nice to meet you. Your practice is—really quite lovely. But I've got to go." 

"Is everything—"

"Everything's fine," John said, and he was laughing now, a slightly hysterical high-pitched giggle that he was sure sounded a bit insane. "I've just been—well—I've been very stupid. Best of luck finding someone to fill the position. And—well. Happy New Year." 

He nodded again, turned his back on their bewildered faces, took the handles to Rosie's pushchair.

"Thank God that's over," he said. "Let's go home."


	28. Many Happy Returns

*

Sherlock sat at the kitchen table, looked at slides of blood samples from the poisoning case he had just wrapped up. The case had been underwhelming. Disappointing. 

The slides did not hold his attention. His mind wandered. He found himself staring into the sitting room, at Rosie's little pile of toys, at John's empty chair. 

He had not heard back from John since he'd sent the picture of Rosie in her ill-fated Christmas dress. Perhaps the skull had been a poor choice for set dressing. More likely, John had been pulled in to his interview and had not had a chance to respond. 

He should not be wasting time obsessing over text messages. John either would respond, or he wouldn't. He would either accept the job in Bristol, or he wouldn't. Either way, he'd be back to Baker Street by early evening. 

What would happen after that—well. There was simply no way to know for sure. But Sherlock could certainly imagine several likely scenarios. He did not care for any of them. 

He pushed his chair back from the table, gave up on the microscope. Instinct had him gathering his slides, carefully putting everything away far out of the reach of curious little hands. He supposed the time would come, sooner rather than later, when he would not need to bother. 

The prospect held very limited appeal. 

He was no stranger to boredom, to restlessness, but this was—

Well. It had been some time since he'd felt quite this unmoored. 

The flat felt strangely empty without John or Rosie underfoot. He disliked the silence. 

He went to the windows, looked out at the flat grey sky, at the busy street below. The forecast was calling for more snow. Perhaps even more than they'd had the night he'd tumbled into the Thames. The thought left him cold, uncomfortable. 

He left the sitting room, went out into the hallway. Paused by the stairs and looked up, imagined he could hear the familiar creaking of John's footsteps overhead. 

He went up the stairs. The door to John's room was ajar, and he pushed it the rest of the way open, stood in the doorway. 

The room was quite small. Neat, of course, John had always been neat. But small. Even smaller, now, with Rosie's cot and extra dresser and playthings. Cramped. 

Sherlock went and sat down on the edge of John's bed, reached out. He could touch Rosie's cot from where he sat. 

It was not enough room for two. Not for the long term. Not by half. 

It explained why John was considering moving out. It did not explain _Bristol,_ but perhaps that had only come about because of his conversation with Sarah Sawyer. A crime of opportunity, so to speak. 

Sherlock stood up. He had to squeeze past the cot to get to the wardrobe. He opened it, looked inside. John's shirts hung in a neat but cramped line. The wardrobe air smelled faintly of his detergent, his cologne. 

He shut the door, turned back. Looked at the small bookshelf by the door. There were no photographs. He could not remember if John had ever kept photographs, before. 

Regardless, he kept nothing now. No wedding photo. No pictures of Mary, or of Rosie. No sister, no extended family. 

Sherlock took a step towards the door, stopped. Turned back.

His gaze caught on the edge of a white envelope, pressed between two rather dull and outdated medical textbooks. 

_Mary,_ he thought, and he reached out, slipped the envelope with its little disc out of its hiding place. Looked at it. 

_Miss Me?_

He shut his eyes against the sudden flood of memories, still raw, even after all this time. He did not need to watch the disc again. Its contents were burned in his mind forever. 

_Save John Watson._

He'd tried his best. He had. 

Perhaps it was enough, now. John was doing well. John was back on his feet and ready to move on with his life. Perhaps the last step was the one he'd been most unwilling to take. 

He slipped the disc back where he'd found it, no longer comfortable, John's empty room only serving to remind him that soon enough it would be truly empty. 

His finger brushed against hard plastic, and he paused. Finished tucking Mary's disc back where he'd found it. There was a slim plastic disc case slipped into the same spot. 

He withdrew it, looked at it curiously. There was a crack in the plastic. Could have been an accident, but—the crease down the middle, the stress lines—it looked as though someone had held it in their hands and tried to break it, had given up before succeeding. 

Curious.

He opened the case, looked at the disc inside. It was unharmed from whatever fate had befallen the plastic case. There was no writing on it, no identifying marks.

He took it with him as he left the room, went back downstairs. Popped it into his laptop. Waited. 

Baker Street. His own face. His voice, slight stammer. Nerves. He was pacing. 

Sherlock paused the video, leaned back in his chair. His heartrate had accelerated. He folded his hands, pressed them against his lips. 

_What the hell—?_

He pressed play again. Lestrade's voice, just off screen. Ah. The birthday video. He'd made a birthday video for John, after the fiasco with the monograph—and oh, Christ, there he was mentioning it.

This wasn't—

He hadn't—

The actual video that had been shot and given to John had been brief, to the point. _Many happy returns, sorry I can't be there, blah blah blah._

Clearly, at some point, someone had given John a copy of the uncut version. 

Well, not just someone. Lestrade. It had to have been Lestrade. But why? And when? 

He looked again at the case, with its crack and its lightened streak of stressed plastic. Someone had tried to break it, had changed their mind. Had stopped. Had instead tucked it away carefully out of sight.

Not just someone. John. But why? And when? 

Oh. 

_Oh._

He stood up in a rush. His face felt unpleasantly warm, his hands cold. He needed to move and so he paced, turning in a circle, thinking, thinking. 

At what point would Lestrade have deemed it necessary to gift John with an extended cut of a video he already had in his possession, an extended cut that included nothing of note beyond a few extra moments of Sherlock running his mouth? 

When he was dead. Clearly. 

It would explain the stress line in the plastic, too. Wouldn't it?

He frowned, considered. 

John would have been angry. John _had_ been angry. At some point he'd been angry enough to want to destroy the disc. He'd started to do so, had stopped. Something had stopped him. Sentiment. He'd not gone through with it. He'd kept it. 

And, curiously enough, he'd kept it even after he no longer had a reason to do so. 

Sherlock's legs wobbled. He sat down again, hard. Breathed out. Looked at his own face, frozen there on the screen. He looked young. Earnest. Nervous. 

_You only had to say, you know._

It broke over him like a wave of icy riverwater and he lurched back to his feet, bolted into the kitchen. Snatched his phone up from the table. 

He did not bother with a text message, simply dialed. 

Voicemail.

Right. The interview. 

Still, no time like the present. 

"John," he said, and his voice emerged trembling, urgent. He ploughed on. "It has occurred to me that—perhaps—" he stopped, breathed out. Tried again. "You're interviewing for a positon in Bristol. If that's what you truly want, then—um. Disregard this. But if it's not—on the off chance that you're there because you think that there are certain—things. Things that I should have said a long time ago and never did, then—well. That's my failing. And you should know. Well, there are a lot of things you should know. But most importantly, you should know that. That I—would like you to stay. Here. With me." He cleared his throat, looked up at the ceiling. "Forever, in case that wasn't clear." 

He disconnected the call, stood holding his phone pressed against his ear. He breathed out, hard. His breath was shaky. 

He waited for a moment. Then he set the phone down on the coffee table, went to the window, picked up his violin.


	29. Bad Weather

*

The train slowed. 

John shifted uncomfortably in his seat, turned to look out the window. 

He could not see much. Snow and ice had begun to build up on the glass. The temperature had wavered just on the edge of freezing, with the precipitation alternating between snow and freezing rain. Tiny ice particles rattled against the window. 

Rosie sat in the window seat, gazing raptly out at the mounting storm. 

The train slowed further, brakes squealing. 

"Looks like another delay," the woman seated across the aisle said. She rustled her newspaper, set it down in her lap. Sighed. 

The train gently creaked to a stop. 

"Bad weather," the woman said, her voice conversational and John had to grit his teeth against spitting out a Sherlock-esque _Obviously._

He refrained. But it was difficult. 

It wasn't her fault, of course. People got chatty when forced to spend hours in close proximity.

He'd just—well. Of late, he'd found himself adverse to conversations with strangers on public transportation.

The storm had come on quickly, with a good deal more force than expected. The train had already been traveling at half speed due to unsafe conditions on the tracks. They'd been forced to stop in Swindon and wait for nearly two hours before resuming. There had been another interminable delay in Reading.

Now this. 

Rosie had been remarkably patient, though he knew his luck was bound to run out eventually. What was meant to be a two hour trip was now going on six, with no reprieve in sight. 

His phone had died. He took it out of his pocket periodically, regardless, looked at the flat black screen. Touched it like a talisman. 

Outside, the wind howled.

Christ, at this rate he'd be lucky make it home before the clock struck midnight. 

The thought curdled his stomach. He shifted in his seat again. Shut his eyes. 

On Christmas Eve, before he'd ruined it, John had sat on the sofa and Sherlock had sat across from him. Their knees had bumped. There had been a fire going, and they had been surrounded by people they loved. There had been music on the radio. Sherlock had smiled at him like he was something worth smiling at. 

He wanted to be something worth smiling at. 

Oh, God, he wanted that. 

He never wanted to be the reason one of those rare, wonderful smiles slipped away from Sherlock's face ever again. He wanted to put them there. He wanted to guard them. He wanted to _taste_ them. 

He was getting ahead of himself. 

First he had to get home. 

His hand tapped restlessly against his knee. He stretched his legs out, drew them back in. Sighed. 

He wanted to get out and run, ice and snow be damned. Wanted to put his head down and push through the cold and wet, to ignore the stinging of his cheeks, his ears, his fingers. Wanted to pull the frigid damp air into his lungs and not stop until he'd reached Baker Street, until he could see the soft lamplight glow in the window, Sherlock's silhouette through the glass. 

"Big plans tonight?" the woman across the aisle asked. 

He looked at her. She was looking back with a mild, detached interest. Her face was drawn, weary. He regretted his earlier uncharitable thoughts towards her. She was bored and restless and uncomfortable, just like everyone else on the train.

"You just look a bit—nervous," she said. She tipped her head towards his hand, and he stilled the restless jump of his fingers.

"Just—want to get home," John said. 

"Your little one has been very well behaved."

"She has her limits," John said. He smiled tightly. "I suspect she'll be reaching them soon." 

The train gave a little shudder, began once more lumbering forward. John breathed a sigh of relief. 

"Got someone waiting for you, then?" the woman asked. She smiled faintly. 

He opened his mouth, shut it again. Moistened his lips. His face had gone quite warm. "Yes," he said. He cleared his throat. There was a smile pulling at the edges of his mouth. "I think so. I hope so."


	30. Auld Lang Syne

*

At nine o'clock, Sherlock had to admit to himself that it was very likely John was not coming home. 

The storm had intensified. The wind whistled and beads of ice pelted against the windows. Trains had been cancelled. News reports were advising people to stay close to home. 

The most likely scenario was that John, having concluded his successful interview by mid-afternoon, had looked at the weather forecast and had elected to remain safely in Bristol for another night. A prudent course of action, especially considering he had a child in tow. 

And, following that decision, he had elected not to reestablish contact because—

Well. 

There were a number of possible scenarios. 

Scenario 1: John had been troubled, offended or otherwise put off by the photo that Sherlock had sent him. Unlikely. Even if he disapproved of the skull, his natural parental instincts would override his objections due entirely to the fact that it was an appealing and well-composed photograph of his daughter in her Christmas dress. 

Scenario 2: It had simply slipped John's mind. Possible. If his interview had gone well, it was likely that John had been hit with a flood of new information. Perhaps he'd been invited to continue the conversation on his future employment in a less formal setting, over dinner or drinks. He had not made any formal New Year's Eve plans in London, after all. There would be nothing to call and cancel. 

Scenario 3: John had forgotten his phone charger. Unlikely. Even if he had left his charger at home, upon finding himself stranded in a hotel in an unfamiliar city, he'd have simply purchased a new one. 

Scenario 4: John had heard his message, and—

Sherlock stood up from his chair and went to the window, looked out through the frost-encrusted glass. The city below, ordinarily so vibrant—its heartbeat palpable and close—seemed oddly distant. Silent. 

He tented his hands, pressed his fingers against his lips. Started again. 

Scenario 4: John had heard his message and was seeking to avoid discussing it. There were several possible reasons for this, of course. None of them entirely palatable. 

That was—

Well. It was the most likely possibility. He'd read the situation wrong. Had flung himself into action without thinking it through. Wouldn't be the first time. 

He stood at the window, watched the swirling snow. 

At ten o'clock, Mrs Hudson came up with a tray of nibbles and a bottle of champagne. He shouted her out of the room, then slumped into his chair feeling uncomfortably regretful. 

At ten-fifteen, Mrs Hudson came back in. He opened his mouth to say something and she shook her head, crossed the room with quick determined little steps. She sat on the edge of his chair, leaned down, hugged him. 

Flabbergasted, he lifted his arms up, hugged her back. The angle was slightly awkward. 

"He's not back, then?" she asked. 

He did not respond, because she clearly already knew the answer. 

"Oh, Sherlock," she said. She petted at his hair in a way clearly meant to be soothing. It was not particularly soothing to him, but it seemed to comfort her, so he allowed it to continue. 

After what seemed an appropriate length of time, he leaned back. 

Mrs Hudson sighed, stood up. Petted at him once more. "Now," she said, her voice gone brusque. "How about we try that again? I'll bring up some nibbles." 

She came back up the stairs with her champagne and her little tray, and they shared them together over the kitchen table. 

At eleven-thirty, the champagne bottle empty, she patted Sherlock on the shoulder rather blearily and said "Doesn't look like I'll be staying up till midnight this year, dear. Happy New Year. Not too much noise, if you don't mind." She kissed him on the cheek and went down the stairs with her careful slow steps, and he was once more alone. 

He went back to the window, looked out at the quiet city through its veil of snow. Picked up his violin and began to play. 

He shut his eyes, lost himself. 

There was a sound behind him and he opened his eyes, lifted his bow from the strings. 

"Change your mind?" he asked. 

The voice that responded was not Mrs Hudson's.

"Yes," John said. 

Sherlock froze. Outside, the wind shrieked and howled. 

He turned around. John stood in the doorway, wrapped in a lumpy coat. He was soaking wet, his hair windblown, his face flushed red. The lump in his coat moved, and Sherlock blinked. Rosie was zipped up in there, her face shielded against John's chest. 

He stared. 

The legs of John's trousers were soaked up to the knee, the fabric dragging limp and heavy against the ground. Snow and ice crusted the shoulders of his coat. Damp tendrils of his rumpled hair clung to his forehead. There was a bead of moisture at the end of his nose. 

"Couldn't get a cab," John said. He took a step into the room, then another. "Walked." 

Sherlock opened his mouth. Shut it again. Cleared his throat. "Obviously." 

"Trains were delayed." 

"Clearly." 

"You—" John said, just as Sherlock said "I—" 

They stopped, looked at each other. The little drop moisture at the edge of John's nose trembled, dripped down to the floor. He sniffed, wiped at his face with the back of one gloved hand. 

Sherlock _stared._

"Oh, God," John said, at last, moving forward with three fast strides, peeling off his damp gloves, dropping them to the ground. His hands curled around Sherlock's upper arms, sliding down to cup his elbows, fingers cold through the thin fabric of his shirt.

They were very close. John's unsteady, nervous breaths puffed against Sherlock's chin. Sherlock's heart thumped wildly in his chest. He did not know what to do. 

"Sherlock," John said. 

Sherlock's tongue felt thick, leaden. "I—" he tried again. 

"Sherlock. Put. Put down your violin."

Sherlock looked down at the bow clutched in his right hand, the neck of the instrument still gripped tightly in his left. The strings had bit into his palm. He leaned over, set them both carefully on the desk. Turned back. 

John kissed him. 

His lips were cold, chapped. His nose, chilled and damp, brushed along Sherlock's cheek. His fingers curled tight where they had settled against Sherlock's elbows. 

Sherlock froze for a moment, shocked. The dry skin of John's lower lip caught against his own. He was very aware of the sound of John's breathing, of the heavy familiar smell of wet wool and London air, the faint hint of the disappointing turkey sandwich John had eaten for lunch. The way John's eyelashes turned golden in the lamplight. 

He lurched forward, not at all graceful, his hands coming up to cradle John's face. His heart thudded unsteadily against his ribs. He was aware of nothing and everything, the world distilled down to the rasp of John's stubble against his chin, John's skin warming under his palms. 

He groaned, unsteady on his feet, his heart cracking open. 

John made a pained noise in response, and then Rosie stirred against his chest, warming, now, in her layers of coats. She opened her eyes, flailed, and then started squalling. 

John stepped back, looking astoundingly flustered. 

"Christ—" he said, and he laughed. It was a bemused laugh. He shook his head. His hair, wet and cold and drying in odd clumps, was still slicked back on one side where Sherlock's hand had pressed it. 

Sherlock looked at him. Laughter bubbled up from somewhere deep in his chest and he made no effort to choke it back down. He took a stumbling step forward, reached for the zipper of John's coat. His face felt abnormally warm. 

John's coat was wet, though it had not soaked all the way through. Sherlock peeled it off, threw it aside. Rosie was tucked against his chest in a sling, wrapped up warm in her own thick winter attire. Her cheeks were flushing up red as she made her displeasure known. 

"Too cold for her in the pushchair," John said. He was shivering a bit now. Sherlock could not quite tell if it was caused by a chill or adrenaline. "It kept getting caught in the snow, anyway. I—uh—" he laughed, a bit self-consciously, "—left it behind." 

Sherlock drew Rosie out of the sling. Her whooping cries stuttered, briefly, when she saw him, but she was too far along into a proper tantrum to stop completely. 

"Hello," he said to her.

She paused again at the sound of his voice, reached out one small hand to paw at his nose. Pinched. Wrinkled up her face in disapproval when he flinched back, let out another shriek. 

"She's had a hell of a day," John said. "We've been—the trains were delayed, and—" 

Sherlock bounced her once, twice. Unzipped her from her heavy winter coat, let that drop to the floor as well. Kissed her on her furious, bunched up little forehead. 

"I should—" John said. He paused, scratched the back of his neck. 

"Yes," Sherlock said. He stepped closer, passed Rosie back to John. He hesitated, lay a tentative hand against John's cheek. "You should." 

John blinked at him, his eyes darkening slightly. He nodded. His stubble scratched pleasingly against Sherlock's palm. 

Then he turned, went down the hall towards the bathroom with his quick, determined strides. 

Sherlock sat down in his chair, listened to the sound of running water, listened as Rosie calmed, as her screams yielded to whimpers, and eventually, miracle of miracles, to giggles. 

He pressed his hand against his mouth. Shut his eyes. Opened them again, glanced over at the clock. 

Just past midnight. 

He was smiling. 

He could not recall the last time, if ever, the symbolic start of a new year had filled him with—what exactly _was_ this? Hope? Joy? 

He picked up his violin from the desk, lifted it to his shoulder. He stared out the window at the swirling snow, played the first strains of _Auld Lang Syne._ He shut his eyes. 

"Beautiful," John said, when he was done. 

He turned, set the violin back down. John was standing in the kitchen, Rosie limp and sleepy in his arms. She'd been bathed and dried, dressed in soft pyjamas. 

"Happy New Year, John." 

John smiled, went through the door and up the stairs. Sherlock listened to the creak of his footsteps, the sounds he made as he settled Rosie in her cot. The steady tread on the stairs as he came back down. 

Sherlock waited by the window. He was not sure what to do with his hands. He regretted setting the violin aside. 

John came back into the room, paused for a moment in the doorway. 

"I missed it," John said. He inclined his head towards the clock. 

"Arbitrary," Sherlock said. "Meaningless." 

"I'd wanted to kiss you at midnight," John pursed his lips. "Thought about it for ages on the train." 

"You kissed me before midnight," Sherlock said, feeling nervous and mildly hysterical, almost giddy. He cleared his throat. "Provided you do so again after midnight, I see no cause for concern." 

John tipped his head back and laughed. His eyes gleamed. The smile melted years from his face. 

Sherlock's mouth twitched. He met John's gaze, lifted his brows. "Am I correct in assuming that there is—no cause for concern?" 

"Christ," John said, grinning at him. "You are unbelievable. Anyone ever tell you that?"

"You, actually, with some frequency—" 

Sherlock's words were cut off as John stepped forward, yanked him down into a kiss that was significantly less tentative than the first one they had shared. John's hands roamed, across his shoulders, down his back, creeping up to wind in his hair. It was overwhelming and wonderful and it wrenched a noise from the back of his throat, something almost like a sob. He stumbled backwards so that he was half-sitting on the desk, drawing John forward with him. 

John groaned, rolled his forehead against Sherlock's. He was breathing hard. He pulled back slightly, his eyes fluttering open.

He was mesmerizing, this close. Sherlock could see his pores, the fine lines under his eyes, around his mouth. The way his pupils had dilated, swallowing the rich dark blue of his irises. Sherlock wanted to press his lips to every line, wanted to catalogue every hair. 

"I want to be here," John said, his voice barely above a whisper. "With you. This is—this is where I want to be." 

"You got my message," Sherlock said, a little breathless. 

"Yeah, I did," John said. Nodded. Then he frowned. "Wait. No. What message?" 

"I left you a message." 

"On my phone?" John stepped back, tugged his phone out of his pocket. Held it up. "Dead. I didn't have my charger. That's why I didn't—" he stopped again, looked at Sherlock. "Wait. You left me a message. You. Mr _I-Prefer-to-Text?_ What did—what did it say?" 

"Never mind," Sherlock said. He reached out, hooked his fingers in John's belt loops, pulled him back in close. "You heard it."


	31. New Year

*

John woke before the dawn. 

He lay still and quiet, listened to Sherlock's steady breathing in the darkness. Thought of the way Sherlock had fallen apart in his arms the night before, the sounds he'd made, the taste of him. The heavy hot weight of him, skin-to-skin, the silk of his hair twining through John's fingers. 

He thought of clumsy, enthusiastic kisses, of the way their limbs had seemed uncoordinated and graceless at first, the sweet awkwardness of knocking teeth and muffled giggles. The warm familiar smell of Sherlock's skin in the hollow of his suprasternal notch. 

Christ, he had spent years wanting. 

Sherlock breathed, slow, steady, even breaths. He was a deep sleeper, when the urge took him. There was something almost devastating about the sight of him, his body loose and unguarded, his face mashed up against his pillow, his curls in disarray. 

He was human. His morning breath, puffing out between parted lips, was sour. His pale neck was dotted red where John had kissed him, where his stubble had dragged over smooth soft skin. 

It had been so easy, in the end. 

So many years. So many hurts, large and small, between them. He'd expected to feel the ground shift under his feet, had expected something earth-shaking, something momentous. 

It hadn't felt momentous. It had simply felt right. 

Even now, lying awake in the pre-dawn hours, he felt none of the panic he'd expected would come after upending years upon years of status quo. Instead, he felt comfortable. Quiet. Calm. _Happy._ And—if he were honest with himself—a little melancholy. Faintly mourning those lost years, what might have been. 

Sherlock shifted, made a smacking sound with his lips that John tried and failed not to find charming. His pale eyes blinked open.

For a moment they stared at each other. 

Sherlock smiled. 

It was a radiant smile, a stunned smile, spreading slowly across his entire face, crinkling his eyes. 

John smiled back. His heart felt lighter than it had in years. 

"Good morning," John said. 

Sherlock went on staring at him for a moment, before tentatively lifting his hand, laying it palm-up in the space between them. 

As if, after everything, there could still be doubt. 

John took Sherlock's hand in his, lifted it to his mouth, kissed each knuckle in turn. Watched Sherlock's eyes flutter shut.

"Come here," he said, and tugged gently on that hand. 

Sherlock shifted towards him willingly, pillowing his head on John's chest, letting out a quiet little hum of contentment. John shut his eyes against a sudden sting. His breath emerged shaky. 

Sherlock lifted his head, looked at him. His brow furrowed up.

John smiled, feeling self-conscious and caught out. "Just happy," he said. He placed his palm flat against Sherlock's cheek, traced his thumb across one sharp cheekbone. 

Sherlock shut his eyes, melted into his hand. Smiled. John thought of all the times he'd held himself back, all the time he hadn't reached out, all the times he hadn't touched. All of the smiles that had slipped unanswered from Sherlock's lips. 

Sherlock's eyes opened again. For all the softness of his expression, those eyes were keen. 

"You have questions," he said. 

John could have laughed. He did laugh, tilting his head against the pillow. "No," he said, liking the way that Sherlock's lips twitched up. "Actually. I don't." 

"Then wh—" 

John cut him off, pressed their lips together, felt his chest warm at Sherlock's pleased little sound. 

They kissed slowly, comfortably, without the rushed nervous heat of the night before. John ran his hand down Sherlock's side, his fingers teasing along his ribs, and smiled when he squirmed. 

Upstairs, Rosie began to cry out. 

John pulled away reluctantly, left Sherlock smiling amidst his rumpled bedsheets. He went upstairs, paused in the doorway to his cramped little room, looked at Rosie standing in her cot. 

She frowned back at him.

"None of that," he told her. "You'll be grateful to have your own room, one day." 

He took care of her needs, carried her downstairs, set her up at the kitchen table while he started breakfast. 

He felt curiously light, giddy. He caught himself staring at Sherlock's closed bedroom door and grinning.

Rosie seemed to pick up on his good mood. She beamed back at him, giggled when he dropped an eggshell into the pan by mistake. He narrowed his eyes at her as he fished it back out, which only made her giggle harder. 

While the eggs sizzled, he fetched his phone from the desk, unplugged it from its charger. He looked down at the screen, at the little voicemail indicator. 

_You got my message,_ Sherlock had said. There had been something stunned and vulnerable in his voice, something cautiously hopeful in his eyes. 

John dialed in, tucked the phone against his shoulder as he went back into the kitchen to see to the eggs. He took the pan off the heat. Rummaged around for plates. 

Rosie was humming to herself, tapping her hands against the table in an offbeat pattern. 

In his ear, Sherlock's voice. 

John stopped moving, bowed his head. Put one hand out against the counter for support. 

_You should know that. That I—would like you to stay. Here. With me._

He looked helplessly back at Rosie, who was still tapping on the table, still smiling, unaware that the earth had gone and shifted under his feet after all.

_Forever, in case that wasn't clear._

John pressed his hand hard against his mouth. Breathed in through his nose.

Thought of Sherlock, sitting alone in the flat on New Year's Eve. Thought of how long his heart must have dangled there, so freely offered up, without acknowledgement. Not just last night. For years. 

John thought: _forever._

Sherlock's door creaked open. He emerged, rumpled and sleepy-eyed, in his pyjamas and dressing gown. 

"Sher!" Rosie bleated, and his face lit up at the sight of her, and John loved them both in that moment, so much that it felt he might crack from the sheer weight of it. 

Years, he thought. They'd been fools for years. 

"John?" Sherlock's voice. Concerned. 

John looked up, looked at that familiar beloved face. There had been a time when he thought he'd never see that face again. And there had been a time when he thought he'd never _want_ to see that face again. 

"I almost missed this," John said. He gestured vaguely towards Sherlock, towards Rosie. "I went to bloody Bristol, and I almost missed this. Again. Sherlock, do you—" his voice cracked, and he looked away, pinching hard at the bridge of his nose, struggling to keep control. "Do you have any idea? How many years? How long I—" 

"Yes," Sherlock said. His voice was quite serious, earnest. He came around so that he was standing in front of John, his chin tucked in, his mouth pressed tight. "I know." His voice dropped a bit, he dipped his head forward, so that John could see his eyes. Could see that he was not deducing, he was _confessing._ "I know," he said again. 

"Christ," John said. "Your message—what you said—forever, yeah? That's. That's what I want. With you. That's all I've ever wanted." 

"Oh," Sherlock said. He looked stunned, and then pleased. "All right. Good." 

"That's it?" John asked. He let out a little laugh, shook his head. "That easy. After everything. Just like that?" 

Sherlock shrugged. There was a smile threatening at the corners of his mouth. "It's a new year. Time for new beginnings. Fresh starts." 

"You got that from a book." 

"John," Sherlock said. He leaned down so that their faces were level, hesitated ever-so-slightly before brushing their noses together, their lips. It was not so much a kiss as a caress. He was still smiling. "Everyone got that from a book." 

John laughed, and he brought his hands up to tangle in Sherlock's hair, and he kissed him and kissed him and kissed him while the eggs grew cool on the counter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I leave them here, happy and smiling in the home they've made together.
> 
> Thank you all so much for coming on this journey with me!

**Author's Note:**

> I'm on [Tumblr](http://discordantwords.tumblr.com), feel free to stop by and say hi!

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[Podfic] Another Auld Lang Syne](https://archiveofourown.org/works/16860751) by [Lockedinjohnlock](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lockedinjohnlock/pseuds/Lockedinjohnlock)




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